


Legs too weak to make a stand

by Unholy



Series: Boys on the outside of heaven [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Drug Addiction, Historical, Human Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Minor Character Death, Physical Abuse, Slavery, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 07:49:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 108,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11375796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unholy/pseuds/Unholy
Summary: “Do you think that’s why the stars exist?” Dean wondered. “For guidance? To help us get through the storm to the other side?”Castiel let his head loll to the side to watch Dean. The boy had a distant look on his face, like in his mind, he was somewhere far, far away. His green eyes sparkled in the pale moonlight, with that unrelenting shine of sadness embedded in them.Castiel wanted to kiss him.“Maybe,” he said instead, placing his hand under his head. “Maybe they’re there to guide you home.”“Yeah,” Dean agreed, gazing at the moon with a pained desire in his eyes, “home.”Or; Castiel is sent away to a foreign country to stop the raids that are terrorizing his country. It’s supposed to be a simple mission but the problems run deeper than he dared to imagine and he’s only just scratched the surface. On top of that, this one slave with freckles on his cheeks and pain in his eyes manages to finds his way into Castiel’s closed-off heart. He makes it his personal mission to give the slave named Dean back his freedom, but that road is a tough one to travel – and they find out the hard way.





	1. Burn

**Author's Note:**

> First off, a huge thank you to my amazing artist [spoopernaptime](http://spoopernaptime.tumblr.com) who made the beautiful art for this fic. It's awesome, I love it.  
> Also a shoutout to the lovely [royalrowena](http://royalrowena.tumblr.com) who beta-ed this whole thing.
> 
> If you are reading this as a fan of the Ranger’s Apprentice series (or at least someone who has read the books), you probably should know that I didn’t stick to every detail of the books; this is pretty canon divergent. There’s some small things that I purposely overlooked or changed for the flow of the story, and I made the Skandians more barbaric than they probably really are. It’s mostly in the details, though; most of the major outlines in the books are the same. I do hope this doesn’t bother you.
> 
> If you’re not reading this as someone who has read the Ranger’s Apprentice book series; don’t worry, you won’t have any trouble understanding this story. I’ve explained every concept from the book so it should be perfectly understandable. 
> 
> The title is from the song Absolution by The Pretty Reckless.

 

The thing that roused Castiel Novak from his sleep was not the noise of a horse galloping through the woods, nor was it the pained cracks of the branches it crushed under its hooves. Not even the harsh, north-east wind beating upon the walls and windows of his cabin, creating a loud, wailing sound, or the rain slamming on the rooftop were what woke him up. No, instead, it was the soft scrape of his own horse’s hooves against the wooden floor of her stables, and the soft whinny she let out as a warning for Castiel: _someone’s coming_.

Castiel was up and out of bed within seconds, pulling his tunic over his head and grabbing his Saxe knife from its sheath where he’d put it on the floor beside his bed the night before. A quick glance out of his window told him it was in the late hours of night, or perhaps the early hours of the morning. The moon had risen and gone back to sleep, but the sun, unlike himself, had not woken up yet. Twinkling up there in the high heavens, the stars gave insufficient lighting for Castiel to see by, but he could clearly hear the dull, still far-away clatter of hooves slamming against the earthy ground.

It had been a cold, rainy autumn day and an even colder and rainier autumn night and, as Castiel slipped his feet into his boots and swung his cloak over his shoulders, he was already dreading going outside into the downpour. The rain was clattering upon his humble cabin, streaming down the windows and forming puddles in the meadow outside. Whoever it was that had the nerve to seek him out and bother him in the middle of such a storm would regret their decision.

By the time the galloping horse was brought to a halt just outside his cabin, Castiel had already taken his longbow from its resting spot and readied it, the quiver filled with twelve arrows resting on his back. When heavy footsteps climbed the small set of stairs to his front door, he had fastened his belt with the sheath containing his set of knives around his waist, and as four loud, rapid knocks on the door echoed through the otherwise dead-silent cabin, Castiel pulled the cowl of his cloak over his head, hiding his face within its shadows.

As soon as he opened the door, a gust rushed through it, spraying raindrops and wet leaves upon Castiel and into his cabin. Even grumpier than he had been mere second before, he gazed down to the stranger on his doorstep – literally. The yellow-skinned boy currently standing in front of him was several inches shorter than Castiel himself, which wasn’t at all helped by the way he seemed to be hunching in on himself, as if he was afraid of Castiel – which, granted, he probably was, as most commoners were of members of the Ranger Corps. He was dressed in plain clothes: well-worn trousers, a long-sleeve that looked like it had seen better days and a dirt-stained overall. He took off his woollen cap when Castiel appeared in front of him, shivering not only from cold, but also from fear – or at least wariness – Castiel suspected. He didn’t blame the kid – in the darkness, with the howling wind and the heavy rain surrounding them, Castiel must have looked somewhat demonic.

The thought that for a commoner to seek out a Ranger, who were feared greatly by the people – mostly for their impeccable archery skills and their ability to move without being seen or heard – the issue said commoner was facing had to be a serious one only crossed Castiel’s mind for a short second before his annoyance caught the upper hand once more. “What are you doing here?” he bit, perhaps more hostile than he should have been. The kid was seeking his help, after all.

The boy swallowed visibly, gathering up the courage to speak. It didn’t take him long to form an answer and the thought that the problem would probably be bad crawled back into Castiel’s mind. “I-it’s the village, Sir. There’s- you must come and help!” he panted, tripping over his words. Castiel finally took mercy on him.

“What’s your name?” he asked, dropping the hood so the boy could see his face. Some of the concern slipped from the kid’s face as his eyes briefly slid over Castiel’s features.

“Kevin, Sir. Kevin Tran,” he answered, gasping through the words. “My parents- are fishermen. We live at the- at the edge of the village, right- right next to the sea.”

Castiel nodded; he’d suspected as much. “What brings you here, Kevin? What’s the panic?”

Though he had been trying for a light mood, Castiel didn’t expect Kevin to laugh, or even smile – but he also didn’t expect the boy’s face to slip into the heaviest, gravest expression someone could possible wear when panicked and out of breath. Castiel felt as if he had been punched when he heard Kevin’s next words, like a stone settled heavily inside his stomach.

“Fire,” he panted, a panicked expression taking over his face. “The- the village is on fire. It’s chaos. They’re everywhere. We tried to resist them but- but there’s too many of them, and they’re too strong.” As Castiel turned increasingly confused, pain flashed behind Kevin’s eyes, vivid and bright.

“People are dead. People are dying. You have to help us. Please, help us.” He looked doubtful and scared. “I wasn’t- Jody said you’d help.”

Castiel knew what Kevin had been about to say – _I wasn’t sure you would be willing to help._ Because by most commoners – especially farmers and fishermen – Rangers were believed to be some kind of forest spirits or even demons. Sometimes it was funny, but mostly it was just annoying. He guessed they would never know how much Rangers actually _help_ common people. Though officially working for the King, the goals of Rangers’ tasks were mostly to keep the country – and thus its people – safe.

Jody was one of the few people who were not afraid of Rangers. Castiel had met her when he’d been on a mission a few years back and he’d earned her trust and gratitude when he captured her son and husband’s murderers, sending them off to the fief’s castle where they would be prosecuted and held in the dungeons. She owned a tavern at the high road of the city, Willow Vale. Castiel often visited her. He always ordered a mug of well-brewed coffee and strategically took a seat in the far corner of the room, where he could watch all people that enter without being seen himself. At first, he mainly visited her to give her some support after her husband’s and son’s death, but after that had flown over, after Jody’s hurt had settled and she’d adopted two young girls from the Willow Vale Baron’s orphanage, Castiel hadn’t broken his newly-formed habit. He’d found he quite enjoyed the company, against his expectations.

“Why didn’t Jody come herself?” Castiel asked Kevin, who was still standing on his veranda, dripping rainwater on the wooden flooring. The fisherman pulled a face.

“It’s bad. Really bad. Even the rain doesn’t seem to be helping. Jody- and all the other villagers- you have to help them,” he answered. Castiel frowned at the vague answer, worry nagging at the back of his mind.

Spurred back into action by a whinny produced by his horse, Grace, Castiel shut the door behind himself and darted past Kevin to the stables. It took him but a few minutes to saddle his horse and get her ready to go. Kevin had been smart enough to mount his own horse again and soon enough, they were on their way. Their horses’ hooves made splashing, squelching noises every time they hit the ground and pulled up out of the mud again. The stallion Kevin was riding looked strong and proud, but it wasn’t built for stamina – its panting and wheezing could be heard even over the heavy rainfall and the thunder roaring in the sky. Castiel had to contain Grace in speed somewhat for Kevin and his horse to be able to keep up with them.

When they reached the edge of the woods, Castiel found that Kevin hadn’t said a word too many on the situation – some words too few, actually. The fire produced almost enough light for the night to pass as day, had the flames not cast such strange and eerie shadows on the ground. As he gazed down upon the town from the hill they were barrelling downwards from, Castiel felt his heart sink into his boots and an intense sadness grasped him, twisting his stomach in painful knots.

Crying and screaming were the first things he heard when they got out in the open air. People were running – away from the village, into the woods. Some were headed for the steep rocks and cliffs more to the east, where the land and the ocean merged as one. Most of the faces that passed them were familiar, although twisted almost unrecognisably with terror and suffering. Castiel could nearly touch the panic in the air.

There wasn’t a building in sight that was not burning. The flames reached high and far, capturing everything and anything in their destructive path as they sprayed sparks and ashes all around. Their roaring and screaming drowned out the clattering of hooves upon the pavestones of the high road; it swallowed the panicked cries of the people, even the bellowing of the thunderstorm up above. Kevin had been correct: the rain did little to nothing to stop the fire from spreading, from burning, destroying.

The combination of the darkness of the night and the blinding light of the fire made it hard for Castiel to see properly. Coloured spots danced in front of his eyes as he slowed Grace’s pace to a steady trot, gaze darting from side to side to examine the situation.

Once again, Castiel found himself agreeing with Kevin’s words; it was bad. He couldn’t find a better word for it himself. It was really, utterly _bad_. Even standing in the middle of the high road in the centre of the town, wherever he looked, Castiel couldn’t find a single building left untouched by the grabby hands of the fire. It was like standing within an ocean of flames, completely engulfed by the waves of their heat and captured in their calamity.

An onshore wind blew straight across the town, angling the fire sideways and making it easier for it to leap onto neighbouring buildings. Castiel’s cloak fluttered in the breeze, in danger of catching some of the sparks that were forced out of the flames.

Even Grace, who was trained for extreme situations and who, at Castiel’s side, had seen her fair share of those, was nervous. She kept pattering her hooves, bobbing her head, never standing still. Castiel felt a prickle in the back of his neck himself, an awareness that something was off, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

The high road was filled with people; running, pushing, carrying others, trying to get away from the flames. The farther into the village they went, the less people they came across. Most of them must have already fled into the woods.

Kevin’s horse popped up beside them, even more restless and scared than Grace. The boy’s face was grim and pale under his coloured skin. “They came from the sea, in the dead of night. No-one had expected them. They were so fast, they worked so efficiently. We heard them before we saw them.” He spoke with a hint of admiration woven through the hurt in his voice. Castiel guessed it was the fisherman in him. “They took everything. Stole our money. Slaughtered our stock. My mom-”

He broke off, voice cracking, overtaken with grief. Castiel’s eyes caught the glistening of a tear on Kevin’s cheek amidst the drops of rain, illuminated by the flames. “They killed my mom.”

It was in that moment that Castiel noticed the blood covering the pave stones. The hairs on the back on his neck erected further when he finally realised what was wrong. There were no people in sight. No-one was trying to quench the fire. There were just running footsteps and terrified screams in the distance, muffled by the fire but not muted.

Turning his head to the side, Castiel felt his stomach lurch and bile rise up in his throat. The blood trail lead his gaze back to a pale face, sleep-mussed hair and unseeing eyes. Castiel swallowed and looked away. He knew that woman. Or, _used to_. Her name was Pamela and he may not have been very well-acquainted with her, but she had always been nice, in her own, strange way. He had liked her.

There was no way she had been killed by the fire. Not with all that blood. _God_ , there was so much blood.

Castiel’s world blurred together until there was nothing but the noise of the fire and the rain.

It was a raid.

The high road suddenly seemed unduly silent.

“Who is ‘they’?” Castiel asked. Kevin shivered. From cold, fear, or memory, Castiel could only guess.

“Skandians.”

 

****

 

There had been a time when Castiel would have believed Kevin instantly. He would have stepped in without a second’s hesitation, would have called for the castle’s army to assist him, fought the Skandians off with all his might. But that time was no more.

“Skandians?” he repeated instead, raising an eyebrow when Kevin nodded in confirmation. “You mean the same Skandians that our country has established a treaty with? The Skandians that have been our trading partners for years now? Those Skandians?”

Kevin looked at him as if he lost his mind. “How many different kinds of Skandians do you know of?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes at him but didn’t answer the question. Skandians may not be the most civilized of folks, but their countries’ relationship had been good for the past couple of years. A sudden offence to that relationship just didn’t make any sense.

 _And yet_. Castiel’s eyes drifted back to Pamela’s lifeless body, the long gash in her abdomen, the bruises on her arms and face.

“Get to the castle,” he ordered instead, unable to look away from her blood painting the pave stones red. “Go as fast as you can. Don’t look back and whatever you do, _don’t stop_ until you get there. Tell the Baron we are being overrun, and that we need immediate assistance of his knights.”

Kevin nodded compliantly but stayed put. “What about the people? What about my friends? What are you going to do?”

Castiel shot him a stern look. “If you want to help your friends, go and get help of people trained for this kind of combat. I’ll do what I can until they arrive.”

Kevin nodded once more and urged his horse onwards, galloping down the high road that lead up to the castle.

In the meantime, Castiel nudged Grace’s sides with the heels of his feet and steered the hesitant pony down the street, trying hard to ignore the trail of lifeless bodies the intruders had left on the side of the road in their rampage. A string of sweat had formed on his forehead from the heat of the flames, droplets slowly trickling down the side of his face. There wasn’t much time left before the structures of the buildings would start to give out under the heat and burn of the flames and collapse.

A loud scream pierced through the clamour of the fire and when Castiel’s eyes dashed to the source of the sound, he saw a body half running, half falling through the doors of what he knew purely from memory to be the tavern. A mess of long, blond hair caught Castiel’s attention and when a much bigger, stronger figure exited the tavern too, bearing what looked like a large sword in one hand, he urged Grace to go faster and took his bow.

Slipping an arrow from his quiver and laying it on the nock was second nature by now. Aiming steadily while on top of a cantering horse came almost as easy as breathing. The feathers tickled his skin as his thumb stroked his chin absent-mindedly. Breathing out, Castiel let the arrow slide away, losing sight of it in its flight after a second but finding it again when the man he’d been aiming for let out a loud wail and sank to his knees.

Claire was scrambling to get back on her feet when Castiel reached her, jumping down to solid ground before Grace had even come to a complete halt. She seemed shaken up, a bit bruised and covered in ashes but not severely injured. There were some tears and holes in her shirt, some with black at the edges where the flames had come too close, and her hair was tangled up instead of in the neat braids she usually always wore. She looked a mess.

“Are you okay?” he asked, extending her a hand. She took it without taking her eyes off the man, who was now supporting himself with one arm braced on the ground, the other clutched tightly around the shaft of the arrow, wheezing wetly as he gasped for air. Her grip was tight from fear as she clung to him, her hands twisting in the fabric of his cloak anxiously. She nodded.

“Where is Jody?” Castiel pressed. He was forced to almost yell to be heard over the fire’s cries. She blinked, finally able to tear her gaze away from her attacker.

“We ran. When the inn caught on fire, we ran. Or, we tried to. There were people everywhere, pushing and pulling. Everyone was panicked. I lost them in the crowd. I don’t know where they are now.”

Castiel nods, purposely ignoring the tears he could see burning in her eyes. She didn’t like people seeing her cry. He’d learned that in the many times he had visited Jody. “We’ll find them.” He promised, her as much as himself. He would find them.

Lifting her up was easy; she didn’t weigh much. He carefully settled her on Grace’s back, pressing the reins into her hands. “Go back; out of the village, into the forest. Find my cabin. You’ll be safe there. They won’t follow you.” He waited until she nodded her understanding and agreement. Then he turned to Grace.

“Take her home,” he ordered, tugging on the halter to turn her around in half a circle, back the way they’d come from. “Make sure she’s safe.”

Grace turned one large, dark-brown eye to look at him. _What about you?_ she seemed to ask. Castiel patted her on the neck.

“I’ll be fine,” he answered. “Now go.”

Grace accelerated from standing still to galloping at full speed within mere seconds and, with a last backwards glance from Claire, they disappeared from sight, swallowed whole by the darkness. Castiel prayed for them to be safe. He pulled the cowl of his cloak up and over his head, enfolding his face in that same darkness.

The scrape of metal against stone caught Castiel’s ears and he turned to the wounded man beside him just in time to duck out of the way of an uncoordinated but still rather powerful swing of a sword. Disarming the man again after that was almost too easy; the pirate had been weakened by his blood loss. Castiel kicked the sword away, out of the man’s reach, and took the time to examine him.

He didn’t like what he saw, hated the surprise that came with it, the utter betrayal that roused anger inside him, bubbling up from his toes straight to his chest.

The man was big, with a round face and an even rounder belly. His strength was visible in every part of him, however. The fact that he had just swung such a long, heavy weapon at Castiel with a reasonable amount of strength behind it proved that point. He was broad-shouldered – or, well, broad-everything-ed. The sheepskin vest he was wearing was tight around the shoulders, now covered in blood on one side. His round, wooden shield lay abandoned in the tavern’s doorstep, the flames already licking at it and taking it into their grasp.

The man coughed, blood splattering on the ground. Part of it dripped down into his long, braided beard, barely visible in the ginger hair. Slowly sinking down onto his side, he kept staring up at Castiel, an unreadable expression on his face. The Ranger stepped forward and knelt beside the dying man, his face still hidden from view.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

All he got was a grin, teeth stained with blood, before the light in his eyes dimmed and his body finally succumbed to its critical loss of blood. A trickle of it slowly ran down his cheek, dripping onto the pave stones as it reached the end of his face.

Castiel sighed. He didn’t need any words. The answer to his question was lying there, right next to the man’s limp body. The rain made a clanging noise when it fell down upon it. Castiel took it into his hands, studying it closer.

It was a helmet. A horned one, completely made out of iron, without any padding. Two large horns protruded from either side of it

A Skandian helmet.

The anger inside Castiel roared louder than the fire around him.

The treaty between Araluen and Skandia had been violated. And not lightly.

Castiel couldn’t help but wonder if this meant the end of their era of peace, and the commencement of one of war.

 

****

 

By the time Castiel arrived at the coast, half a dozen small rowing boats had already departed from the land and were well on their way to the much larger ship that was waiting for them a distance away. It loomed ominously in the darkness, the faint lighting of the now-far-away-fire casting faint shadows on the bow. A horrific figurehead was carved on the front, a mixture between a terrible dragon and a wolf. It looked even more eerie in the deficient light. It was a Wolfship, there was no doubt about it. The typical type of ship that only Skandians crafted and used.

So it was not one single rogue Skandian that had paired up with a pirate gang – a possibility Castiel had hoped for but seriously doubted.

Time seemed to run in slow-motion as the Wolfship turned sluggishly, all sixteen oars splashing into the ocean and surfacing to repeat their actions with graceful symmetry. With the stern now facing Castiel, it gradually gained speed despite the onshore wind.

Castiel stood and watched, the tide lapping lazily at his feet, how the Wolfship slowly disappeared into the dark of night. Only when its silhouette was swallowed by the horizon did he turn away, sea water squelching inside his boots as he looked at the scenery in front of him. At the trampled flowers adorning the grasslands. At the mutilated cattle lying scattered across their fields. At the burning village, flames reaching so high up into the sky that its sparks became the stars. At the death and despair marring the town. His town.

He already dreaded having to go into the houses once the fire would be quenched, to find the bodies of those the Skandians had killed first-handed before they’d set the fires. There would undoubtedly be a lot of funerals in the upcoming days.

Castiel had failed his duties, had failed to keep the people in his fief safe. He’d failed miserably. Grasping onto the silver oak leaf hanging on a chain from his neck, he clenched his eyes shut.

His train of thought was disturbed by a rumbling sound hanging in the air. After a few moments, Castiel recognised the sound as the trampling of hooves. The Baron had sent his cavalry.

Badge still clutched tightly in his grasp, Castiel started the hike from the coast back to the high road. It took him much longer than when he was rushing towards the sea in hopes of doing he wasn’t exactly sure what, using the shadows and camouflage of his cloak to move invisibly. Now, manoeuvring through the killed cattle with every ounce of his guilt weighing him down significantly, it felt like hours before he finally felt solid stone under his feet.

One of the battle horses came trotting forward. It stopped just a few steps away from where Castiel was standing, with another, smaller horse trailing behind it. Its rider’s attire was just that much more luxurious than that of the other soldiers, though equally as soaked by the rain. The Baron had come in person. Castiel recognised a defeated-looking Kevin sitting on the other horse.

Castiel stood by and watched as the Baron ordered his men to douse the fire and look for the surviving residents. “They fled for the woods,” Castiel heard himself say. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears. He pushed his cowl backwards, revealing his face. A small group of knights set off in that direction. The others dismounted their horses and started the work, to fight the flames.

“Castiel,” Baron Balthazar said, descending from his horse to put a hand on the Ranger’s shoulder. “Are you all right? What is going on here?”

His blue eyes were filled with confusion and worry, a hint of growing anger simmering just beneath the surface. Castiel lowered his eyes. The edges of his silver oak leaf were digging into his palm painfully.

“Yes, my Lord. I was not injured,” he answered. “It was a raid. Skandians. As you can see, they killed most of the cattle and took what they could fit into their rowing boats. They set the houses on fire. The entire village was burning before I got here. I-” He swallowed heavily. “I should have-”

He snapped his mouth shut when Balthazar squeezed his shoulder. The expression on the Baron’s face was of concern and sadness, not one of disappointment.

“What could you have done? A single man against a full ship crew of pirates?” he asked. He wasn’t expecting an answer so Castiel didn’t give him one. “The situation would have been even worse if you would have gotten yourself killed. You did good.”

Castiel released his grip on his oak leaf. The metal felt abnormally warm against his chest. There was an indent left of it in his palm, the edges of it reddened in irritation.

“That’s a single Ranger against a full ship crew of Skandians, mind you,” he rebutted. Baron Balthazar rolled his eyes, though a small smile tugged the edges of his mouth upwards. “I took out one of them.”

Only then did one crucial piece of information seem to settle inside the Baron’s mind. “Skandians, you say?” he asked, eyes wide. “Are you sure?”

Castiel nodded grimly. “I’m positive, Sir.”

Balthazar stared at him for a while, pondering, before nodding decisively. “We’ll worry about that later. Right now, our biggest concern is the city.”

“I will go back to the forest, see if I can help any of the survivors,” Castiel offered. The word ‘survivors’ sounded bitter and strange on his tongue. This was not the way things should have gone.

Balthazar frowned. “Where’s your horse?” he wondered.

“I lent her to a villager so they could get away safely,” Castiel answered. The Baron gestured at the hoard of battle horses standing just a couple of metres away from them.

“You can borrow one of these, if you want. As long as you bring it back.”

Castiel smirked despite himself. “No promises.”

Balthazar smiled back and waved him off. “Get out of here. You’re wasting precious time.”

Castiel knew he was only half kidding. Without another word, he walked up to the nearest horse and mounted it. Its back felt uncomfortably broad in comparison to Grace’s slim form. It wasn’t by far as fast as her, either, moving cumbrously and without any grace. Castiel could feel its muscles bulging even underneath the heavy leather saddle. It was clearly bred and trained for speed and not stamina, like his own pony.

He purposely steered the battle horse in a wide circle around the village. The flames had reduced somewhat, letting themselves be tamed by the downpour and the numerous buckets of water the Baron’s men had taken as their weapons. Thick pillars of black smoke were rising up into the sky, hindered by the rain but not letting up.

As the horse galloped heavily through the valley, Castiel felt as though the weight of his guilt was holding even the poor animal down.

 

****

 

Once Castiel arrived at the edge of the woods, he noticed that the Baron’s men were managing just fine on their own. Thus, he decided to go to his cabin and check up on Claire. He kept glancing around, but he didn’t see Jody anywhere.

The path meandering its way between the trees to his cabin was quiet; there wasn’t a man – or woman – in sight. Castiel didn’t expect any of the commoners to wander within the vicinity of a Ranger’s property, especially when they were already frightened half to death.

He was surprised to find Claire in the stable, rubbing the sweat off Grace’s body with handfuls of hay. The pony was slobbering from a bucket of lukewarm water that Claire must have warmed up slightly above the fireplace in his cabin. He could see her shivering in the chilly night air. The sun was starting to rise and her beams of soft light were colouring the sky pink.

He dismounted the horse – which was a higher distance than he was used to; he winced when his ankle twisted as it came in rather harsh contact with the ground. His feet were soaked, by both the rain and the tide, and he pulled a face at the uncomfortable feeling when he walked up to his veranda and tied the horse’s reins to one of the posts in a simple knot. He would have trusted Grace not to wander off without his permission, but the battle horse hadn’t had such training and Castiel didn’t want to take the risk.

The hinges of the stable door creaked when he opened it. He never oiled them on purpose. That way, he would always hear if an intruder entered his property. Claire looked up expectantly when he stepped into the stables. He didn’t want to let her down.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked instead of answering her unspoken question. “It’s freezing – you’ll catch a cold.”

“I didn’t want to be alone,” she answered quietly, rubbing at Grace’s coat absent-mindedly. A violent shiver ran through her body. Castiel pulled her away from the horse.

“Let’s get you inside. Is the fire still burning?”

Claire nodded. “Safe and small, though.” She managed a small smile. Castiel smiled back, albeit wryly. He sat her down in the larger, more comfortable chair close to the fireplace and stoked the fire. He hadn’t expected the sound of a fire to ever be comforting again, but he’d been mistaken. The soft crackle of the small, contained flames settled a feeling of rest over him. “Did you find Jody?”

Draping a clean blanket over Claire’s back and shoulders, he settled himself on a chair next to her, extending his hands to the fire to warm them up. He had hung his soaked cloak over the back of the third and final chair. It was slowly dripping rainwater on the floor, but he decided he would worry about that later. He shook his head.

“Can I make you some coffee?” he proposed. Personally, he was yearning for a cup. Claire wrapped the blanket tighter around herself.

“Actually, I could do with a glass of wine right now,” she replied. Castiel narrows his eyes at her, tilting his head slightly.

“You’re not allowed to drink any alcohol.”

“Jody won’t find out.”

Castiel decided to ignore the underlying meaning of that statement.

Grabbing a handful of coffee beans from the pot he had them stashed in, he carefully grinded them while the kettle of water slowly heated up to boiling temperature above the fire. His sensitive hand throbbed when it came in contact with the tool. “We’ll find them,” he said softly as he divided the ground beans over two mugs. Claire nodded mutely.

“Yeah.”

Just when Castiel went to pour the hot water into the mugs, a knock on the door made him freeze in his actions. Grace hadn’t warned them, which was weird as much as it was good. Claire shot him a look of mild panic and Castiel decided he didn’t want to take the risk. Soundlessly, he gestured for Claire to go into the bedroom which, after a moment’s hesitation, she did. As quietly as he could, Castiel slid his Saxe knife from its scabbard and held it at the ready as he sneaked to the door. He opened it just a crack, peeking outside, and was immediately filled with relief.

“Jody.”

She stepped inside as soon as the door opened far enough. Alex followed behind her. Her long, dark hair was sodden, hanging over her shoulders and framing her face in fuzzy locks. She somewhat resembled a drowned kitten. But other than being wet and cold, she seemed fine. They both do.

“Did Kevin come here?” she asked. Castiel nodded.

“He did. And I sent him off to the castle to get help. He did that, too. The Baron’s men are dousing the fire as we speak.”

Jody nodded distractedly. She didn’t seem to really have heard him.

“I can’t find Claire,” she blurted out, running a hand through her short, brown hair. “We tried to get away but there were too many people, and then those, those-” She clenched her fist, at a loss for words. “-those _barbarians_ showed up and I just- I lost her. I lost her. I can’t find her anywhere.” Castiel could see she was near tears. “You have to help me, Castiel.”

Before he had the chance to turn around and call for Claire, she already darted out of his bedroom, still wrapped up in her blanket. He could actually hear Jody’s breath catch in her throat, a few seconds before she dashed forward to wrap Claire in a hug. Alex joined in, too, her shoulders sagging in relief.

Castiel looked away, feeling as if he was intruding in a private moment. He busied himself with putting his Saxe knife back into its sheath and mopping up the small pool of water that has collected on the floor underneath his still-dripping cloak.

Jody suddenly wrapped him in a hug Castiel didn’t see coming. Their clothes were soaked from the rain and dirty from the ashes of the fire, so it wasn’t overly comfortable. Castiel pulled away perhaps a bit too soon. Jody didn’t seem phased. He’d never been touchy-feely. The times he had hugged someone, even back when he was a kid, could be counted on two hands.

“Thank you,” Jody said, her hand lingering on his upper arm. Castiel couldn’t bear to look her in the eyes. He was the Ranger of the fief, even situated in this village. He should have been there. He should have done something, anything to stop those Skandians. To stop them from causing this much grief and destruction.

“Could you do me a favour?” Jody asked. Her tone suggested there was no saying ‘no’ to her request, but Castiel nodded anyway.

“Promise me you will do whatever you can to find the people who did this and bring them to justice.”

Castiel lifted his gaze, finally meeting her eyes. There was a quiet, sad determination in hers, a certain fierceness that she’d always possessed and that only ever grew stronger the more she went through.

The Ranger could practically feel his own eyes harden, as if Jody’s fortitude was contagious. As he straightened his back, his hand wrapped itself around his silver oak leaf, the symbol showing he’d proven himself worthy as a King’s Ranger.

“I promise.”

 

****

 

Merely a few hours later, he found himself dressed in his full attire, his horse laden with enough resources to last several days, in the Baron’s office. It had a simple interior, with but one tapestry as the only decoration. His desk was manufactured from heavy oak wood, polished until one could see their own reflection in its surface. The chairs, too, were made of that same type of wood, large and simple but not uncomfortable-looking. One large window occupied part of the east wall. Castiel knew the Baron had a magnificent view, reaching all the way to where the waves break on the shore and farther. But right now, the shutters were closed tightly in order to keep the chilly autumn winds out of the room. Some light seeped through the cracks in the wood, but the main sources of illumination in the room were the softly crackling flames in the fireplace and the oil lamp on the Baron’s desk.

Balthazar was pacing from one end of the room to another, a hand resting on his chin pensively. His eyebrows were pulled together in a frown and the corners of his mouth pointed downwards somewhat.

“So they were Skandians,” he stated for the fifth time since Castiel entered the room. The Ranger sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Yes.”

Balthazar continued pacing, even as his arms were now resting at his side and he was looking at Castiel. “And you’re absolutely certain?” he asked. The Ranger narrowed his eyes at the Baron, squinting at him angrily as he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Balthazar raised his hands, palms forward, as a sign of surrender. “Okay, okay, you’re sure. My apologies.” He ran a hand through his hair, strands of it sticking up in all directions after he did so. “Did you know this wasn’t the first raid? Worst, yes, but not the first.”

Castiel raised his eyebrows. “Not the first?”

“Unfortunately not,” Balthazar shook his head. “Boyletown and Danver’s Crossing have been targeted as well, in the past couple of weeks. Esseldon some months earlier. There may have been others, even further back. We can’t be sure.”

“Months?” Castiel repeated, exasperated and unbelieving. “This has been going on for _months_ and I was not notified of this?”

Balthazar pulled a face. “Don’t think of it like that-” he started, but Castiel interrupted him, fury making his face burn red.

“Like what?” he spat, striding forward until he was standing only inches away from the Baron. “Like you deliberately left me out of the loop? Like I could maybe have solved this problem before those _bandits_ got the chance to burn down my _entire city?_ ” He breathed in heavily, poked his finger into the Baron’s chest accusingly. “How could I not look at it like that?”

Balthazar wrapped his fingers around Castiel’s wrist to push his hand down, but lowered his eyes in apology. “Looking back on it now, I realize that that is what I should have done. I have no doubt your help would have been valuable. But this fief is my responsibility and I thought I would be able to handle it. Should have been able to handle it.” He shot the Ranger a meaningful look. “I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

Castiel tugged his wrist from the Baron’s grip and took a step backwards to give Balthazar back his personal space.

“If it really were Skandians, I’m afraid there is not much you could have done, anyway,” Balthazar said softly. “Not much _I_ could have done, in the end. I do apologize.”

Castiel nodded. “I understand,” he assured, and he did, though he was definitely not pleased about Balthazar’s decision. The Baron was capable, no doubt – and if it had been ordinary bandits, he would have easily been able to clean it up. But it hadn’t been ordinary bandits, the mess had evidently not been cleaned up and now they had a rather massive problem on their hands.

Meanwhile, the Baron had resumed his pacing. Castiel felt like joining him. “How were you planning on handling this situation?” the Baron wondered aloud.

Castiel knew Balthazar wasn’t asking him this because of a lack of leadership skills – he had earned the title of Baron through skill, not through inheritance – but because international issues, such as this one, were not actually his to deal with. The Ranger pondered for a while, staring at the almost burned-out flame of the oil lamp. “The village needs to be rebuilt. Almost every building was destroyed beyond repair – the people will need a place to live until they can move back into their homes.” He scraped his throat. “It needs to be cleaned out beforehand, though. The- the remains need to be collected, identified and given a proper burial. The people need closure.”

Balthazar nodded. “I’ve already made arrangements. The people can stay in the castle until their houses are restored. Those who can will be expected to help with the restauration, of course. And as for your last point-” A grim expression clouded his face, too. “My soldiers will take the task of collecting the bodies upon them. I will arrange for a ceremony to be arranged.” A sad smile tugged the edges of his lips upwards, however little. “We will have to expand the graveyard.”

Castiel nodded. He didn’t expect anything less from Balthazar. “We should send a messenger to the King; he needs to know about this. Skandia has thrown any and all regard of out treaty out of the window.” His eyes met the Baron’s and Castiel knew they were thinking the same thing. A silence stretched itself out between them, blocking out the heat of the fireplace. Balthazar was the one who voiced both their thoughts.

“This could end in war.”

“I will personally travel to Castle Araluen to bring the news to the king,” Castiel offered. Balthazar started to object, but Castiel simply lifted a hand to silence him. “It will be much faster than writing a letter, finding a suitable messenger and sending him on his way with a long list of instructions to follow. I could leave this instant, tell the King everything myself. This information is too important to put it in the hands of a random messenger.”

“I already sent my fastest messenger on his way to Castle Araluen as soon as Mr Tran trampled out gates last night,” Balthazar told him with a small smirk. “But you’re right,” he admitted, “that messenger only knew as much as I knew then. This information needs to be transited to the king as soon as possible. You should leave now; a lot of time has been lost already.”

Castiel smiled mirthlessly, his hand already on the copper doorknob. The material felt like ice against his sweaty palm. “We lost a lot more than time tonight.”

Balthazar bowed his head in glum respect. “The people will not find closure until the people responsible for their grief are put to justice,” he said. A self-satisfied smile tugged the edges of Castiel’s mouth upwards.

“Oh, trust me, I will see that they are,” he ensured.

“Send the king my regards,” the Baron added, almost as an afterthought, “and my deepest apologies. I should have protected my village and I regret not being able to do so.”

Castiel stared at him, face almost unreadable in the poorly lit room. “No, my Lord,” he said, twisting the knob and pulling the oak wood door open, “that was my job.”

With those words, he stepped out of the room and let the heavy door fall shut behind him. His feet made no sound on the cold, stone floor as he descended the stairs back to the bailey. The castle grounds were packed with the village people, slumped against the rough, uneven walls of the castle hopelessly. None of them looked up when Castiel walked through their crowd.

Grace was still standing in the exact spot he had left her, near the gatehouse. She greeted him with a shake of her head.

 _What now?_ she seemed to ask him. Castiel placed his foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself up into the saddle, taking the reins in his hands.

“We are going to rectify this,” he answered.

When the first hollow _thump_ of Grace’s hooves against the wood of the drawbridge took over the sharp _click-clack_ of the horseshoes against the pavestones, they were interrupted by a shout of the Ranger’s name.

“Castiel!”

He pulled on the reins gently, bringing Grace to a halt, and glanced over his shoulder. Claire had caught up with them. She looked clean, but no better than she had hours earlier in his cabin. Her face was pale and her eyes were still wide.

Castiel raised his eyebrows in question but Claire didn’t say anything. They ended up staring at each other in silence for several long moments until Claire finally spoke up.

“Be safe.”

Castiel blinked, surprised by the concerned expression on her face. He shrugged, a playful grin taking over his features.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

 

****

 

The journey to Castle Araluen took him less than two days. Within one, he reached the borders of Araluen fief, and just after sundown on the second day, Grace’s hooves thundered over the wooden planks of Castle Araluen’s drawbridge. The gate was already drawn shut, but there were two guards standing on either side of the heavy iron structure and Grace almost knocked them off their feet when she came to a sloppy stop. She was panting hard, head hung to save energy, and Castiel felt bad for pushing her to her limits but he appreciated how important it was that the king received the news as quickly as possible. Yesterday, preferably. But he was here now, and given the distance he’d had to travel, he had reached his destination quite rapidly. He hadn’t rested properly in the past two days, had only taken breaks of ten minutes to eat and of an hour or two to get some shut-eye.

Slightly swaying in the saddle from exhaustion, he straightened his back and gazed down upon the soldier closest to him. The man had a weary look on his face. “Castiel Novak, Ranger twenty-nine of Trelleth fief,” he introduced himself. “I must see the king.”

The soldier exchanged a glance with his colleague but didn’t make any move to open the gate. Belatedly, Castiel realised he hadn’t shown any identification. Grumbling to himself, he groped blindly down the collar of his cloak for his silver oak leaf. Once he wrapped his hand around the cool metal, he pulled it out in the open and showed it to the guard, blinking in the light of the torches on the wall.

“I must see the king this instant,” he repeated, dropping the oak leaf from his grasp. It dangled from his neck on the silver necklace, standing out sharply against his dark clothes. “It is a matter of great importance.”

The soldier, upon seeing the Ranger’s emblem, saluted him so hastily he almost poked his own eye out and barked an order to open the gate. As soon as it had been lifted high enough, Castiel urged Grace forward for the last couple of yards until she came to a final stop right in front of the stables. A sharp tremor ran through her body and Castiel quickly let himself drop to the ground, staggering for a moment before he regained his balance.

A stableman came rushing forward, eagerly yet cautiously taking over Grace’s reins and even greeting the Ranger with a little bow. Castiel rolled his eyes and patted the pony’s neck gently.

“Good job, girl,” he praised, earning a snuffle and a lick to the hand from his horse before was is led away into the stables, to a bucket of lukewarm water and a nice grooming.

“Excuse me, Sir?” came a somewhat stern voice. Castiel turned around and was faced with its source: a dark-skinned man, slightly taller than Castiel himself, whose colourful attire told the Ranger he was the King’s personal secretary. The man stood with his back straight as a plank, hands folded neatly behind his back. “The king is expecting you. I am to escort you to his chambers instantly.”

Castiel blinked in surprise. Now already? It usually took some time until the King had a gap in his schedule to meet an unexpected guest – over a day, even, sometimes. The secretary seemed to sense his confusion and elaborated.

“The king has received the earlier message and he has made receiving you a priority,” he stated. “Though the message hadn’t mentioned a Ranger would be the one to bring more news. We had expected it to be another messenger.”

Castiel nodded, scoffing sadly. “The ‘more news’ turned out to be bigger than we’d anticipated,” he explained. “I’d like to see the king now, Mister…”

“Turner,” the man said, beckoning for Castiel to follow him as he took off toward the donjon. Once they were inside, they turned left and walked through a series of hallways. It was like a maze, the corridors and passageways in the castle. That was something Castiel had always had trouble getting used to. He preferred the simplicity of his cabin, how familiar and uncomplicated it was.

At the end of the long hallway, there was a set of enormous, double oak wood doors with iron reinforcement and decorations. Before they even came to a stop in front of the doors, the soldiers that were posted on either side of it moved to push them open and revealed a truly mesmerizing sight. From the marble floor enriched with luxurious carpets and the walls with multiple, undoubtedly expensive tapestries decorating the plain grey stones, to the gargantuan chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling and the large, gilded throne with red velvet cushioning; the beauty of it all took Castiel’s breath away.

Seated in said throne, dressed in clothing that perfectly blended in with the royal ambiance of the room, was King Duncan.

Aside from the usual knights standing guard in the far corner of the throne room, it was unoccupied. Their footsteps echoed hollowly off the walls, too loud in the otherwise dead-silent room.

Castiel followed Secretary Turner up to the marble steps, also lined with the thick crimson carpet, where the dark-skinned man suddenly kneeled. The Ranger rushed to do the same, sinking down onto his right knee with his hand, clenched in a fist, planted firmly next to his knee on the floor. The marble felt cold as ice underneath his fingers.

“Permission to rise,” came a clear, deep voice that Castiel was sure would carry to the far corners of the room even if it was packed with people. He didn’t move until the Secretary stood back up as well.

“Ranger Castiel Novak of Trelleth fief is here to bring more news on the attack in Willow Vale, Your Majesty,” Turner announced in a normal speaker’s volume that seemed to boom through the hall anyway.

King Duncan nodded. “Thank you, Rufus. You may go now.”

The Secretary bowed once more; a perfect, waist-up bend that made Castiel’s back ache just from looking at it, before he up and left the room, the slam of the heavy doors echoing through the throne room for a couple of moments.

“Ranger Novak,” the king greeted him, his hands laying on the armrests of his throne, “what is the news from your fief that’s so important you felt the need to deliver it personally?”

Castiel swallowed and tore gaze away from the sparkling chandeliers to face his King.

“I don’t know what the previous messenger has told you, Your Majesty,” he started. His mind was working overtime trying to think of how it would be appropriate to talk to the king. The highest-ranking nobility he’d ever personally encountered so far was Lord Balthazar, and their working relationship had become somewhat of a friendly one over time. “But Willow Vale has indeed been raided.”

The king nodded. Castiel could see the worry radiating off his features even from the distance. The story poured out of his mouth in stammered, shaking sentences.

“The town was completely destroyed, mostly by fire. The pirates killed and mutilated the cattle and took a good portion of it with them. By the time I arrived, most of the buildings were too damaged by the fire, but I’m fairly certain that most valuable objects have been taken as well.” He sighed softly and hesitantly met the king’s eyes. “A lot of people lost their lives.”

King Duncan sighed deeply and ran a hand over his face. “That is terrible news. My deepest condolences. Is there anything I can do to help the restauration? Resources, workers, food? And how is the investigation to the pirates coming along?”

Castiel shook his head. “Thank you, Your Highness, but Lord Balthazar has the restauration covered. He and his men are working very hard to get Willow Vale back to its old glory.” The king nodded and Castiel hesitated. “There is more to it, though. This wasn’t the only raid. Over the past few weeks, several raids have been taking place throughout the fief. Coastal towns. Small ones, a bit isolated. Word doesn’t travel too fast from those places.”

King Duncan’s frown deepened. “Have you made progress in the investigation?” he asks. Castiel bowed his head to hide the face he pulled.

“This has only been brought to my attention a few days ago. So far, we have ascertained their… place of origin,” he said. He licked his lips as King Duncan’s eyebrows shot up in pleasant surprise.

“Where? I shall send a party out there immediately.”

Castiel shifted his weight from one foot to another. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Your Majesty,” he replied. “They were Skandians.”

It was almost comical to see how fast the King’s confused expression turned into a deep frown, then morphed into shocked and unbelieving before it eventually settled on plain angry within mere seconds. Almost.

“Skandians?” King Duncan repeated, rising from his throne. He didn’t look like he realized he was no longer seated; all his attention was aimed at Castiel. The Ranger forced himself to meet the stern gaze without looking away.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice grave but unwavering. “I was dubious about it at first, as well, but there is no doubt. I made sure to scrutinize before I went and made accusations.”

King Duncan just stood there, mouth opening and closing a few times before he slumped back down in his chair. His expression was unreadable. “Are you absolutely, one hundred per cent sure?” he asked. Castiel nodded in verification, the anger and sadness under his skin bubbling up again at the reminder.

“Yes, Your Highness. I saw their Wolfship with my own eyes. Traditional Skandian artisanship. And-” he continued quickly when it looked like the king was going to interrupt, “I battled one of the crewmembers. He was attacking one of the inhabitants of the village. He passed away, unfortunately, but there was no mistaking his nationality. He couldn’t have been anything other than a Skandian.”

King Duncan looked like he was about to have either a heart attack or a temper tantrum. He ended up having neither. Castiel watched in pending silence as different expressions passed on his face until he finally settled for a look of resignation. The king sat up straighter in his throne and scraped his throat.

“That is bad news,” he stated.

“Very bad news,” Castiel agreed. He only barely stopped short of snorting. “What do you propose, Your Majesty?”

King Duncan remained silent for a long time. The sharp, irregular clinking of the guards’ attire echoed through the throne room. Castiel could hear his own breath rasping uncomfortably loud in his own ears. He wondered if the others could hear it too.

When King Duncan finally spoke, the words came out slowly, one by one, as if he was still thinking them over. “I don’t believe the Oberjarl would purposefully betray our agreement like this,” he said. “Our countries have been at peace for many years now and there is no reason for either of us to break that.”

Castiel nodded mutely, waiting for the king to continue. It took him a while longer to finally decide. “We shall send a party to talk to the Oberjarl – _talk_ , nothing more. I trust Erak, he is not just an ally but also a personal friend. If we really were raided by Skandians, there has to be more to it.”

Castiel was surprised to find that the king’s words sounded genuine, not like he was trying to reassure himself. He really trusted the leader of Skandia.

“Rufus!” the king called. Castiel startled a little from how loud his voice sounded in the acoustics of the throne room. It was almost painful to the ears.

Rufus Turner came marching in, one hand remaining on the heavy oak door to keep it from falling shut.

“Yes, Sire?”

“Send a letter to Oberjarl Erak Starfollower of Skandia to notify him that I will be sending a group of delegates to Skandia to discuss an urgent matter,” King Duncan ordered. Rufus nodded.

“That’s very vague, Sire,” he proclaimed, then turned away and let the door fall shut behind him. Duncan sighed and rolled his eyes fondly.

“And send for Miss Bradbury to join us,” he called. Rufus’ grumpy reply from behind the double doors was barely audible.

Castiel had to bite his lip to keep in his laughter.

“I would travel to Skandia myself, but at the moment I’m quite preoccupied,” King Duncan explained. Castiel nodded. He had heard of the problems their country was currently facing in the north. The Scotti, wild tribes that lived in Picta, the country situated directly north from Araluen, were threatening to invade. King Duncan had his hands full in making sure that didn’t happen. “I trust you to handle this, though.”

Castiel did a double take. He couldn’t have heard that right. “Me?” He forgot all about his manners as he stared at the king in confusion and slight disbelief. “You’re going to let _me_ handle it?”

“Not without the help of my best diplomat, of course,” King Duncan said teasingly. “But I’ve got my hands full and who better for this job than a Ranger seeking justice for his village?”

Castiel pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. It did make some sense. He was sure there was no one in the country more motivated to sort this out than he was. But he honestly had no idea how to handle a situation like this. Finding the person that is stealing chickens from the local farmer? Not a problem. Stopping an assassin from murdering the fief’s Baron? Absolutely. Wrapping up the spy gang that has been terrorizing the northern fiefs? He’s game. But anything that revolves around politics and diplomacy in other countries? No thank you. He wasn’t one for politics.

One of the double doors opened and Rufus’ head appeared in the opening. “Miss Bradbury is here, Sire,” he announced. Duncan waved him in.

“Very well. Send her in,” he ordered. Rufus disappeared again and seconds later, a girl walked into the throne room – or rather, a young woman. She wasn’t tall, but not really short either. Her red hair framed her face in long locks that hung over her shoulders, reaching halfway down her back. She was dressed in a simple white dress that seemed to be designed to be practical, not to be pretty. The shoes she was wearing under it were elegant but firm and they looked like you could walk in them for miles and still not feel your feet.

Her stride was full of confidence and there was an air of grace around her as she walked up to them and bowed elegantly to the king.

“Good evening, Your Majesty,” she chirped. She smelled nice, Castiel noticed. Like the flowers he always gathered in summer to put in a vase in his cabin.

“Ranger,” she greeted him, extending a hand. He reached out to shake it. Her handshake was firm and confident. “I’m Charlie Bradbury, head of the Diplomat Corps.”

“Castiel Novak of Trelleth Fief,” he introduced himself. “Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

“Miss Bradbury, you will be accompanying Ranger Novak on a mission to Skandia,” King Duncan said. He didn’t sugar-coat it. “Multiple towns were raided by Skandians in the past weeks and I need you two to get to the bottom of it.”

Charlie raised both her eyebrows and clicked her tongue in disapproval. “That’s not nothing. Are we sure about this?”

Castiel barely suppressed the annoyed sound that threatened to come out of his mouth. “Yes, we’re sure,” he grunted. King Duncan silenced him by raising his hand.

“All I need you to do for now is find out what happened exactly. I know Erak, we’ve been friends for years. I don’t believe he would allow such a thing to happen.”

Erak, Castiel knew, was the Oberjarl of Skandia – a kinglike leader who resided in Skandia’s capital city, Hallasholm. A treaty had been established between Skandia and Araluen, which stated that a force of Araluan archers were to be based in Skandia as a strengthening of the Skandian army. In turn, the Skandians didn’t raid or terrorize any villages on the coast of Araluen.

“So I don’t want you to go there and meet him as an enemy,” Duncan continued. “I want you to go there and meet him as a friend. Figure out what went wrong and give him a chance to right it.”

Castiel clenched his fist in annoyance but didn’t object. He didn’t want to enter that country and play friendly when those barbarians killed his people and set his village on fire. But as the king wanted it, that’s how it would be done.

“I assume Ranger Novak will be supplying me with more details during our journey?” Charlie asked. King Duncan had a small smile on his face as he nodded.

“This is an urgent matter. You will be leaving shortly. I suggest you pack your necessities and make sure you’re ready to leave at any moment.”

Charlie gave him a thumbs-up. “Shall I have someone ready a ship? I know a fine crew, loyal and brave, that will take us across the Stormwhite Sea to Hallasholm without hesitation.”

The Stormwhite Sea – the sea that separated Skandia from Araluen – could be a quite dangerous one, with its strong current and regular tempests. Especially in the autumn and winter period, they were infamous waters to travel. Not many people in their right minds ventured out there in this time of year.

King Duncan shook his head ‘no’. “Gather those you feel you can’t miss, but make it a small group. I don’t expect you to encounter many problems on this mission and I need every man I can find. As for the ship, I’ll have Rufus send a message to the Wolfship patrolling the coast. It won’t take long to get here – it’ll be here in the morning if we act now – and you can have them take you to Hallasholm. I don’t want any Wolfships in the vicinity of my borders now, so it has to leave anyway. Might as well take you along, doesn’t it?”

Charlie bowed shallowly. “Yes, Sire. I’ll gather a crew right away.”

“Very well,” King Duncan replied. “Ranger Novak, I have a room prepared for you. You should clean up and get some rest. You look like you need it.”

Castiel didn’t take offense; he knew he probably looked a mess. That’s what you get from travelling for two days straight without any real breaks. He nodded and bowed again, a bit stiffly and by far not with the grace Charlie did it.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Now that the king had mentioned ‘rest’, he started to feel the ache in his limbs and the itch in his eyes. He was tired – no, he was _exhausted_ , and the thought of a bed had him longing for some sleep.

“I will see you off tomorrow,” Duncan promised. He smiled gently, though Castiel could see the lines of worry in his forehead. “Make sure you send Rufus in on your way out.”

Castiel bowed for the last time, as did Charlie, before they both turned away and exited the throne room. Charlie made eye contact with Rufus and gestured for him to go inside. Rufus sighed and stood up with loud moaning and groaning and the popping of bones as he stretched his back. Castiel grimaced. That sound always got on his nerves.

“So, Ranger Novak, looks like we’ll be working together,” Charlie said. Castiel made a noise of agreement.

“Guess so,” he agreed. “Call me Castiel.”

“Charlie,” she offered, too. Castiel nodded. 

“I’ll be off to my room now, then. I need the rest,” he said. Charlie seemed nice, she did, but she was a bit too quirky, too cheerful for his tired mind to deal with at the moment. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to take offense.

“Alrighty then. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she chirped. “Make sure you’re on time.”

Castiel just snorted and let himself be led to his guestroom. It was nice, not spacious but not small either and decorated simply. The furniture was in good state and the carpet on the floor was thick and soft under his feet. The shutters were closed and the fire in the hearth hadn’t been ignited, so the temperature wasn’t nicely warm but it could be a lot worse. Castiel didn’t pay any of those things a lot of mind, though. As soon as he spotted the bed in the sleeping quarters, he shuffled over to it and dropped down onto the covers, still completely dressed. The minute his head hit the pillow, he succumbed to a much-needed, well-deserved sleep.

He woke up four times that night from nightmares. All of them involved screaming, fire and blood.


	2. Dear sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Castiel saw Dean, he was almost up to his knees in snow.

There was a knock on his door before the sun had risen. Castiel was up and out of bed within seconds. He felt a bit gross, dressed in yesterday’s clothes, still. Grumpily, he opened the door.

A soldier was standing on the other side. He saluted when Castiel opened the door. “Ranger Novak?” he asked. Castiel raised an eyebrow and looked down at his clothes; the standard Ranger uniform, consisting of a simple tunic, soft leather boots and a mottled cloak. The silver oak leaf dangling from his neck shone in the light of the torches on the wall.

“Yes,” he answered anyway. The soldier made a vague gesture with his head.

“I am to inform you that the Wolfship has almost reached the coast and that your presence is required at the docks.”

Castiel nodded and waved the soldier off. “Yeah, yeah, okay. I’ll be down in a moment,” he answered. The soldier looked like he was about to protest but Castiel closed the door in his face. He needed a minute to clean up.

After splashing some water in his face and his armpits from the bucket that was placed in the makeshift washing room, Castiel gathered his things and descended the many stairs of Castle Araluen down to the bailey, where the stables were located. He spotted Grace’s dark brown coat from a distance away and she recognized him too, bobbing her head up and down as a greeting. The stable boy looked mildly shocked as Castiel entered the stables and started equipping his horse.

“I can do that for you, Sir,” he offered. Castiel dismissed him.

“No, it’s fine. I can do it myself.”

Grace was more awake than he was. She was smug about it, too, a mischievous glisten in her dark brown eyes.

 _Sleep well?_ she asked. Castiel pointedly ignored her and tugged on her reins, heading for the castle’s gate. She whinnied cheerfully. For a moment, he contemplated leaving her in Araluen.

The soldiers on either side of the drawbridge greeted him with a salute that Castiel returned lazily. He mounted his horse and she eagerly sped up into a trot. The dull clatter of her hooves against the earthy ground and the chilly morning air on his face woke him up some more. He could feel how sore his limbs were now, though. They ached from the two full days he spent on horseback and the familiar movements jarred the tender muscles. Castiel groaned. It was going to be a long day.

The Wolfship was close to the coast when he arrived at the river bank. Charlie was already there, standing by the riverside on her own. Her long, red locks were loose and fluttered in the gentle breeze. The dark silhouette of the ship on the river a few hundred metres downstream reminded Castiel of that dreaded night. He pointedly didn’t look at it and gazed up at the stars instead. It was a clear night; there were barely any clouds and the sun was not yet up, but the moon had gone back to sleep already and the stars were shining brightly. He had always loved the stars.

He dismounted his horse and left her next to Charlie’s horse, a small distance away from the river bank. Charlie looked up when he joined her. She shot him a small smile. “Ever worked with Skandians before?” she asked him. He shook his head no.

“I’ve heard stories,” he said. “Some even worse than others. The occasional positive one, too.”

“I have,” Charlie said. “Well, not exactly worked with, but been around. You know, when they were on visits in Araluen. Never been to Skandia, though.”

“Me neither,” Castiel agreed. “I wonder what it’s like.”

Charlie shrugged. “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s not going to be anything vacation-worthy.”

They watched in silence as the Wolfship docked and the crew started to disembark after a moment. The only people that actually stepped foot on the shore were those who Castiel presumed were the captain of the ship and his first mate, though their clothes didn’t distinguish their rank like the Araluan uniforms did.

The captain was… large. That was the only word Castiel had for him. He was not only tall, but his limbs and attributes were all big. His hands were as big as Castiel’s entire head, attached to meaty arms with the biggest biceps Castiel had ever seen. The helm on his head was not made of any special material and only stood out because of the huge horns protruding from each side. Even his beard was long, with several small braids in them. It reached down to his chest.

King Duncan, diplomatic as ever, stepped forward with an extended hand, smiling openly. “Skirl Hardstriker,” he greeted the Skandian, shaking his hand. The Skandian returned the greeting with a jolly smile.

“King Duncan, great ter see yeh again,” he mused, pumping the King’s arm up and down enthusiastically. Castiel was afraid he would dislocate King Duncan’s shoulder.

“You too, Gundar, you too.” His smile was a bit strained, but otherwise the King didn’t let anything on. “How have you been?”

“Oh, yeh know, business as usual,” he grimaced, putting his hands on his hips. “So, wha’ can I do fer yeh?”

King Duncan pursed his lips and rubbed his hand over his chin. “Well, I am stuck on a situation here and I was hoping you could be of help.” Gundar nodded and the King continued. “These are Charlie Bradbury, honoured member of my Diplomat Corps, and Castiel Novak, member of the Ranger Corps.”

Gundar shook both their hands. His grip was like a vice and Castiel could feel the bones in his hand shift as the Skandian squished it. The first mate, who greeted them in the same manner, had a handshake just as fierce.

“We need to have a word,” King Duncan said. Gundar’s expression slipped to a grim, serious one.

“Yeah, somethin’ told me yeh’d say that,” he slurred, clapping his hands. “What did yeh want ter talk ‘bout?”

 

****

 

Gundar turned out to be rather helpful. He was compassionate about what happened, angry even, cursing the gods out of the heavens in front of royalty. King Duncan merely raised his eyebrows and didn’t comment, a small, hidden smile on his lips. The Skandian promised him to take his people across the Narrow Sea and the Stormwhite Sea to Skandia’s capital city, Hallasholm. The whole ordeal didn’t take long and before Castiel knew it, he and Charlie were boarding the ship, their meagre possessions stuffed in simple duffle bags. He carried all his weapons, including the ones hidden underneath his clothing, but his bow and quiver filled with arrows were rolled up in a piece of cloth in his bag. It was a longbow, so it was a large weapon and in a small space, like a ship, it could be quite cumbersome, especially when there was no need to use it. He felt a bit naked without its weight on his back, still.

His weaponry belt was fastened snugly around his waist, both of his knives seated in their sheaths. The small knife up his left sleeve and the dagger in his right boot were a familiar and comforting pressure on his skin, one he barely felt anymore. Even if they were technically not entering enemy territory, Castiel still felt uncomfortable just trusting these people without knowing anything about them. King Duncan seemed to know their leader personally, though, which did set his mind at ease a little bit. But the feeling of unease stirring in his stomach remained.

Their horses were on the ship too, Charlie’s dun mare and Castiel’s dark brown one, both settled in makeshift stables down in the hold. They’d been airlifted in with a crane because the ship couldn’t get close enough to the river bank for them to put out a gangway.

By the time they set sail for Skandia, the sun had risen but was still low on the horizon. The shades of pink and orange it painted in the sky were gorgeous and Castiel’s breath was taken away. Charlie enjoyed them, too, though she wasn’t as entranced by them as he was.

“You’re a hopeless romantic,” she told him with a smirk on her face, when she caught him staring at the morning sky in awe. He merely glared at her half-heartedly.

“Maybe you’re just cold-hearted.”

They remained standing at the stern of the ship, watching the outline of the Araluan coast as it slowly but surely disappeared from their view, swallowed by the horizon. After a while, even the island of Seacliff, which was located a couple hundred metres away from the coast, isolated from the mainland by a strip of water, was nothing more than a bunch of rocks protruding from the ocean.

The _Wolfwill_ , as Gundar Hardstriker’s ship was called, was fast. Of course it was – all Wolfships were built for speed, so they could get in and out of the place they were raiding swiftly. The ship was narrow but firm, elegant as it glided through the waves with impeccable balance. Her three masts and their sails were simple and unmarked, discrete and indistinct, though the terrible carving in the wood of the bow was a dead giveaway to the ship’s nationality.

Apparently, all Wolfships had a different carving – all variations of gruesome creatures and monsters. Some of actual wolves, others of dragons or serpents, and the occasional one even inspired by one of the Skandian’s dire gods. They were called Thurak, Gorlog and Hergel, and they came in the form of a shark, a bear and a vulture, respectively.

Despite this, Castiel caught Gundar saying things like “Gorlog’s beard!” or “Hergel’s teeth!” as expletives, even though bears didn’t have beards and vultures didn’t have teeth. So he still wasn’t entirely sure what they were supposed to look like but he didn’t try too hard to figure it out. Religion was a tricky thing.

Castiel and Charlie both got their own cabin on the ship. They were identical, both equally small and confined. The space was so small Castiel couldn’t stand upright without bumping his head against the wooden ceiling and he barely had enough room to turn around. The only furniture in it was a hammock, spun from one side of the ceiling to the other. The room was just long enough to allow it in and as Castiel tried his new temporary bed, he found that it was not entirely uncomfortable. The movements of the ship were palpable here, too, however, and he feared he would not be getting very much sleep during this trip. He tended to sleep badly when his bed moved around. Ships weren’t really his forte.

The journey was going to be long, Castiel knew that. He had travelled longer by ship, when he went to Arrida for example, but he knew it was going to be a drag. It might seem exciting, but there was nothing fun about being stuck on a ship, with literally nowhere to go and nothing to see but open ocean. There was no way out, no real break until you reached your destination. And above that all, they were stuck on said ship with a crew of sea wolves, pirates; people who practically grew up at sea. Their culture, compared to the Araluan one, could be called barbaric.

It was not as bad as he’d thought it would be, however. If Castiel hadn’t been in Willow Vale himself, hadn’t seen and heard what had happened there, and the similar stories of destruction from other villages, he would have started doubting that it had been Skandians again. Gundar was a definite ally. He was loud but kind, in his own way. He cracked jokes to make them less uncomfortable and told them stories about his home and the trouble he’d caused when he was younger. The one thing he didn’t talk about was his job, what most Skandian men did for a living; raid and pirate. If the memory hadn’t been so vivid and new in his mind, Castiel thought he could have forgotten about their occupation. Gundar didn’t come over as a blood-thirsty bandit that set villages on fire and mutilated cattle for fun.

Charlie agreed with him when he told her this, but she did point out one important thing: “He may not seem like it, but at the end of the day, he still is. And he may be offended if you use those specific words, and maybe they’re slightly exaggerated, but they’re not far off from the truth. And even if these people are our allies, that is something you have to keep in mind.”

Those words haunted him still when he retreated into his cabin early for the night. He hadn’t slept properly in days and he hoped tonight will be better; but he already knew it wouldn’t be. This time, he didn’t dream of fire. All he could see was the lifeless stare of Pamela’s unseeing eyes.

 

****

 

The first time Castiel saw Dean, he was almost up to his knees in snow.

Their journey to Skandia had finally come to an end after nearly three weeks at sea and Castiel could confidently say that he already missed Araluen. It wasn’t like they never had snow back there – he vividly recalled the cold winters in his cabin back in Willow Vale, which he’d spent huddled up in front of the fireplace with a freshly brewed mug of coffee – but they had never been as ridiculous as this.

Their ship scraped a chunk of floating ice as they neared the harbour of Hallasholm, Skandia’s capital city. Through the continuously falling snowflakes, Castiel had trouble making it out. It looked more like a dark spot on a blindingly white canvas than anything else.

“Well, there yeh have it,” Gundar bellowed in his usual skipper’s volume, slapping his large hand on Castiel’s shoulder with excessive force. The Ranger felt his knees buckle for a moment. “We’re home. Good ol’, good ol’.”

Castiel suppressed the urge to tell the Skandian that a) neither Hallasholm nor Skandia were actually his home and b) it didn’t look all that… _good_. Subtly slipping out from under Gundar’s strong hand, he pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and sank away in its shadows.

As the contours of Hallasholm got closer and more clear, the wind didn’t decrease but continued to whip snowflakes in his face. Immediately melting when they encountered his warm skin, they seeped through his clothes and ran down his body in tiny, icy streams. He shivered, grumpily burying himself deeper within his woollen cloak.

The wood of the ship creaked precariously when it came in contact with the docking spot, bouncing up and down gently with the rhythm of the waves. Ropes were tossed back and forth between the crew on the ship and the dock workers to fasten the ship. Gundar was the first one to disembark and as the rest of the crew followed, Castiel joined Charlie at the starboard side of the ship. They gazed across the seemingly never-ending ocean. Castiel could taste the salt of it on his tongue, feel it tickle his nostrils.

“What do you think is going to happen?” he wondered aloud. She just shrugged.

“Honestly, I don’t know. It’ll probably just be boring politics before we get sent back home in a couple of days. It shouldn’t take long. We’re just bringing the news to the Oberjarl so he can rap the people responsible over the knuckles.”

Castiel pulled a face. “Do you mean that we’ve just travelled for _weeks_ only to have our feet buried in snow for ‘a couple of days’?”

Charlie smiled and patted his shoulder. “Welcome to my world. Let’s go.”

As soon as Castiel set foot on solid ground, he remembered why he had a profound dislike for travelling across the ocean in the first place. The ground seemed to be moving like waves underneath his feet, almost making him topple over when he tried to take a step. The only thing stopping him from diving face-first into a heap of freshly fallen snow was Charlie’s surprisingly strong arm on his shoulder. She didn’t say anything, just smoothed out the wrinkles she created in his cloak by grabbing him and shot him a self-satisfied smirk. Castiel flipped her off.

“I can take care of myself,” he muttered grumpily. Charlie’s smirk just morphed into a quasi-innocent smile.

“Sure, of course you can,” she said with a pat on his shoulder. It felt a little demeaning.

Castiel decided to ignore her and to take a look at the scenery instead. He had travelled a lot – being a Ranger, it’s in the job description – has been on journeys to Gallica, Toscano and even Arrida. But he had never been to Skandia before and to be honest, Castiel almost wished he had left the assignment to one of the other Rangers. Because Skandia was fucking freezing.

No other words came to mind. It was just freezing. Cold. White. Icy. Wet. The layer of snow covering the ground was at least thirty centimetres thick and had already seeped through the soft leather of his boots, thoroughly soaking the sheep’s fur lining them. His toes were already starting to go numb. They barely moved when he tried to wiggle them. Even the air was cold. The wind that had helped them sail here blazed over the shore, forcing itself through Castiel’s various layers of clothing to raise goose bumps on his skin. He could feel his cheeks quickly turning red.

It was pretty, though, he had to admit that. The sun was out and about, dodging the clouds around her, her beams of light radiated by the glistening snow, albeit they didn’t seem to give any warmth. A pine forest was located several hundred metres from the town. The green branches were covered in a layer of soft-looking snow. The tops of the trees swayed slightly in the icy wind. The low buildings close to the wharfs had snow lying on their roof and window sills, glistening like diamonds in the sun, and the air was scented with the salt of the sea and the robust smell of the forest. He would be able to appreciate the beauty of this country if his feet weren’t freezing off.

“So, this is Skandia, huh? And her capital city?” he said, gaze fixated on the low, wooden buildings of the city and the narrow, dirty road winding its way in between them. “If I’m being honest, I expected... more.”

As if to invigorate his point, a group of Skandian fisherman passed by at that moment. Their arms were linked together and they were stumbling over each other’s feet. Clearly drunk, they were singing loudly and out of tune, a folk song Castiel had never heard before. His eyes followed them until they disappeared from his line of sight before he turned his gaze to Charlie. She tried to bump her shoulder into his, but because she was missing several inches in height, she only hit his arm.

“Don’t try and tell me you’ve never seen something like that in Araluen.”

They were interrupted by Gundar putting his big arms around their shoulders, squeezing just too tightly to be comfortable.

“Welcome home!” the Skandian bellowed, gripping onto Castiel’s neck so tightly he was sure it was going to leave a finger-shaped bruise. “So, what’d’yeh say, kiddos?”

Castiel and Charlie exchanged a look and glance up at a lonely seagull flying over. Its eerie cry echoed through the empty streets too loudly. Gundar’s grin froze but didn’t falter.

“Oh, yeah, it’s a real blast,” Castiel muttered. Charlie bit back a smile. “So, are we going to meet the Oberjarl now or what?”

Gundar squeezed them a little harder before finally releasing them. Castiel subtly massaged the aching skin. He could almost feel it darken under his touch. “All in good time, me friend. We ain’ in no hurry.”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel resisted the urge to tell him that yes, they actually _were_ in a hurry; if there was anything he had learned in their three weeks on the open ocean, it was that Skandians just never _listen_. So he only nodded, attempting to casually slip away into the shadows when he nearly walked into someone.

It was another Skandian, one that wasn’t part of the _Wolfwill_ ’s crew. Castiel mentally berated himself for not noticing the man coming, even though his footsteps had been silenced by the snow covering the ground and the inevitable noise on a docking place. He should have known, anyway. Behind him, Charlie, too, made a noise of surprise.

Their new companion was shorter than most Skandians but still quite large, with a round belly bulging over his leather belt and big biceps. His dark brown hair only just reached his shoulders, framing his face in greasy locks. Eyebrows mushed together in a permanent frown, his eyes were scowling and unfriendly as he looked up at them, while somehow still managing to look down upon them at the same time. Castiel’s returning scowl was lost in the shadows of his hood. He was impressed with how quickly Charlie managed to mask her expression of shock and intimidation behind a diplomatic smile, though.

“Are you King Duncan’s delegates?” the Skandian asked brusquely. Charlie’s smile didn’t falter.

“Yes, we are,” she replied. “My name is Charlie Bradbury, I’m of the King’s Diplomat Corps. This is Castiel Novak, Ranger of Trelleth Fief.”

She motioned to Castiel as she said his name and he just nodded, keeping his face hidden. The Skandian didn’t seem to be impressed by his appearance. Not that Castiel had expected him to be. He knew the name of his fief meant nothing to the man, and though the title of Ranger might, Castiel didn’t think he knew as much about them as he probably should.

“I’m Borsa, the Oberjarl’s Hilfmann,” he introduced himself. Castiel didn’t know what a Hilfmann was, but he bet Charlie did, that she knew what his tasks consisted of down to the letter. It was her job, after all.

“Now, now, Borsa, ain’ no need ter be so formal,” Gundar drawled, slapping his compatriot on the shoulder amicably. “It’s jus’ a lil’ visit. These fellas’re our guests.”

Borsa just scowled at Gundar some more. Castiel decided he didn’t really like the guy. Charlie stepped in, however, and charmed the two men straight into a better mood. The tension slipped away almost tangibly. Castiel had to admit, she really had a gift.

So he left her to handle it and sneaked off back to the ship to watch anxiously as his horse was air-lifted off the ship and carefully placed on the wharf. The pony’s eyes were wide and her ears lay pressed back against her neck as she whinnied nervously. As soon as she was placed safely on the wharf with all four of her hooves, Castiel rushed forward to calm her down. Grace’s big brown eyes radiated discomfort and displeasure.

 _Don’t ever make me do that again_ , she seemed to say. Castiel gently ran a hand over the soft expanse of her nose. The soft hair tickled his skin.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he replied. “It’s over now.”

Charlie popped up beside him again and slung her arm across his shoulder with a sigh. “Skandians are a real piece of fucking work, man,” she complained. Castiel bared out a laugh.

“You only noticed that now?” he grinned. She pushed him. He barely stumbled.

As if on cue, the sun finally lost her battle against the snow; a large, dark cloud slid in front of her, blocking her beams and enhancing the snowfall. Castiel huffed indignantly as the sky proceeded to throw more and more snowflakes at them, and he brushed the white spots off his shoulders. As if there wasn’t enough snow on the ground already. The landscape was so white it was starting to hurt his eyes.

“I already hate this country,” he complained to Charlie, not too loudly because there was a small group of Skandian fishermen lounging close-by. They might not carry weapons, but they were just as big and vigorous-looking as the Skandian soldiers Castiel had had the displeasure of meeting that one time when he’d been on a mission in Gallica and he really didn’t want the anger of Skandian aimed at himself. Skandians were sea wolves, pirates, built like bears and with the same temper. Everything about them was big, including their weapons and their lust for battle. “I think I’m going snow-blind.”

“Quit whining,” Charlie bit, smacking him on the back of the head. “You’re such a nightmare to be around sometimes. You’ve been here for, what, ten minutes? At least _try_ and get used to it first. It’s not even that bad.”

Castiel sighed and glared, muttering “But it’s fucking freezing” under his breath.

“A’ight, are yeh ready? Let’s go an’ get yeh ter the Oberjarl,” Gundar yelled, cheerful mood not in the slightest dampened by the weather. Castiel didn’t know if he should admire the guy for it or be annoyed by him. He glanced over his shoulder to where Borsa was still standing. He looked grumpy and impatient as he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“I should put Grace in a stable first, give her some food, fresh water. Get her to a warm place. She could use some grooming too, her fur’s all dull from those weeks out at sea.” Castiel patted Grace’s neck as he spoke, and his hand came back damp and stained with dirt. The pony bobbed her head in agreement.

Charlie was less pleased with his answer. “You’re going to make the Oberjarl wait because you want to groom your tiny horse first?”

Grace whinnied angrily and Castiel patted her some more to calm her down. “She’s not tiny, she’s-”

“Compact, built for stamina and much better than battle horses, blah blah, the whole ‘Ranger horses are awesome’-speech, I know, I’ve heard it before,” Charlie interrupted. “You Rangers are the worst. But we brought people specially to groom your tiny horse, so hand her over to them and let’s not keep the Oberjarl waiting any longer. He’s probably pissed already, you know, permanently. I don’t want to blow his temper up even more. He owns a battle axe.”

Castiel glared at her but handed Grace’s reins over to the kid assigned for that job, who was standing a few metres away from them, waiting awkwardly. His name was Adam, if he remembered correctly. He was a bit too scrawny for someone attending Horseschool, but during their trip he had proved he was good as his job.

Starting to walk away in Charlie’s wake, Castiel turned back after a few steps. “Take good care of her,” he pressed. Adam looked mildly terrified, as most people seemed to be of Rangers, but he nodded and even saluted clumsily, slamming the heels of his feet together in what looks like a painful manner. Castiel sighed and shook his head, exasperated. It was probably the cloak.

Borsa lead them through the streets of the town. (Castiel would call it a city but it really was not worthy of that title. It was quite small, especially for a capital city, with small, single-floor houses. He’d only counted one tavern thus far, which also happened to be the only building with more than one floor.) People exited their houses just to stand on their porch and gawk at the small group of people marching the streets, holding onto their children tightly. Castiel attempted to hide himself deeper within the shadows of his cloak, as if he could make himself invisible like that – which, granted, he could, had the scenery been less sparkling white and more forest green. His green-brown-grey-mottled cloak wasn’t designed to hide him in a winter landscape.

The only ones of their entire delegation accompanying them to the Oberjarl were himself, Charlie, and a handful of soldiers. Their feet dragging through the thick layer of snow left long gaps in it, an obvious trail. Castiel had to force down his trained instinct to cover his tracks and reminded himself that they were in Skandia on a diplomatic visit, with the Skandians as their allies, not their enemies. There was no need to hide.

Even so, he couldn’t get rid of this feeling of dread and unease pooling in his stomach. He hunched in into his cloak even more and subtly made sure all his knives were safely embedded in their sheaths.

 

****

 

The largest building in Hallasholm was located on the outskirts of the town, surrounded by a stockade and a dry ditch – entirely _not_ unnecessary, Castiel thought grimly as he both heard and felt the half-melted snow squelch inside of his boots. He didn’t want to know how muddy and grimy the place was going to be when spring came and all the snow started melting.

Still consisting of only a single floor, albeit with a pitched roof so it did tower over its neighbours, the lodge was made completely out of pine logs, like all the other buildings – it only distinguished itself from the other buildings with its length. Weirdly enough, there wasn’t any snow covering the roof. It was called the Great Hall – Castiel had done _some_ research before they made the trip, because you never go into unknown territory without preparing yourself – and all he knew about it was that it was the Oberjarl’s office and the place where he and his closest followers dined, as well as the site of all of Skandia’s banquets and official gatherings.

The only thing Castiel could think of when he saw it was that it looked like an oversized hunting cabin. It was by far not as grand or lavish as King Duncan’s dining hall.

The moment he stepped foot inside the stockade, Castiel saw him. He was just returning from the woods and was pulling a sled laden with pine wood, bent almost double under the weight of it. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, but it was dirty and ragged and damp with sweat and melted snow and it didn’t look like it was protecting him from the cold at all. Biceps bulging with the effort, he dragged the sled through the snow and placed it in front of what seems to be a back entrance to the Hall.

The sight of his height and well-trained, though slim muscles was nullified by the look he had on his face when he turned around. He had dark circles under his eyes, his cheeks were sunk in and underneath his slight natural tan, his skin was unhealthily pale. The rags he was dressed in were pulled tight around his broad shoulders, but the shirt hung loosely around his waist, fluttering in the gentle yet icy breeze flowing through the yard. Even though he seemed to be tall, buff and strong, Castiel was certain that he could count the boy’s ribs if he were close enough.

And in that moment, Castiel realized that this boy was a slave.

He knew that the Skandians kept slaves – of course he did. That was one of the first things you learn about foreign history in school; Arridi invented coffee, Temujai bred excellent horses and Skandians were bloodthirsty sea-wolves that kept, and traded in, slaves. But history class was just words and drawings written on parchment in black ink. It was events, no matter how terrible and atrocious, described in a way that drained them of all meaning and emotion, coldly stating facts. Slavery. You know what it is and yet you have no idea what it’s like. You know it’s real but at the same time, it doesn’t feel like it is. It feels like a story, or maybe a warning, but it feels surreal.

Seeing this boy right here, right now, malnourished and shaking as the winter’s chill embedded itself into his bones, suddenly made it very real. Castiel felt bile rise up in his throat.

As they neared the main entrance to the Great Hall (and with that, the slave), Castiel got the opportunity to take a good look at him. Even when he wasn’t pulling the heavy weight of the sled behind him, he was hunched in on himself, broad shoulders pulled down and head hung low. His dirty-blonde hair obscured most of his face from view like this but Castiel could clearly see that it was just a boy, several years younger than himself, though he looked older at the same time, worn down by labour and cold.

When Castiel passed him, the boy glanced up through his eyelashes and the locks of blonde hair sticking to his damp forehead, and their eyes would have met had the Ranger’s face not been obscured by the hood of his cloak. He did get a good look at the boy’s eyes, though. They were truly mesmerizing; Castiel had never seen anyone with eyes that held such a brilliant green colour. But they were dull. Almost lifeless. And that perfectly fit the rest of the boy’s appearance – Hell, the rest of the boy’s _life_ – so Castiel didn’t know why he was even surprised but he was, he was honestly shocked because this boy, at whose age Castiel himself was an apprentice training to become a Ranger, had to have been captured quite some time ago for the light in his eyes to fade like that. For him to break like that.

The moment felt like a lifetime, though in reality, it only lasted for about a second before the boy looked away, hastily as if he’d done something wrong. He hunched in on himself even more and stepped backwards, like he was afraid of being in their way. Castiel didn’t look away from his shaking form until he entered the Great Hall and the door slammed shut behind him.

He instantly understood why the roof of the building held no snow on top of it; as cold as it was outside, that’s how hot it was inside. It was like stepping into a fireplace. The heat prickled at the back of Castiel’s throat.

The inside of the Great Hall was about as simple as he had imagined it to be. A large number of long, wooden tables was splayed out all over the hall, with equally long wooden benches on either side of them. They weren’t made with the same craftsmanship as the polished oak dining tables in the castles of Araluen; they were plain, without any decorations, and Castiel was pretty sure he would get splinters if he sat down on one of the benches.

The only thing that really stood out was the back wall, which was completely hidden behind a huge fire – a contained one, like a grand fireplace. It certainly kept the winter’s frost out of the building.

As Castiel shed his cloak, already sweating from the warmth, he couldn’t help but think of that slave out in the yard, in the cold, with too little clothing to protect him from the harsh temperature. The uneasy feeling in his stomach didn’t settle, but just got worse.

 

****

 

In general, Castiel was opposed to stereotypes (and the consequential superstition).

They were stupid, mostly offensive, and they pretty much always turned out to be incorrect. Like the strong belief under the common people of Araluen that Rangers were some kind of spirits – or better yet, demons – that bore the ability to vanish into thin air or make themselves invisible. And the rumour that they were two-and-a-half metres tall and possessed the strength of three bears was just downright ridiculous. It had nothing to do with magic or a superhuman power. It was just practice. Since he’d become an apprentice, not a day had passed where Castiel didn’t take at least an hour of his time with his bow and arrow to improve his aim and speed even more. There were no demonic powers or magic spells involved. Practice makes perfect. Stereotype rendered invalid.

As it turned out, all of the stereotypes Castiel had heard about Skandians were true.

The Oberjarl, Erak Starfollower, didn’t look any different to Castiel than any of the Skandians they had seen on their way to the Great Hall. He was big, maybe even bigger than your average Skandian, with a round, bulging belly, a thick neck and fat but strong limbs. His matted hair reached just past his shoulder, equally as blonde as his long beard. It was greasy, framing his face in filthy locks, and Castiel was pretty sure he could see some remnants of the guy’s breakfast stuck in his beard.

Erak was nicer than Castiel expected him to be, though. He was jolly and obnoxious, he talked too loudly and downed five large pints of beer in record-time, but he was definitely an ally. Castiel even detected some charisma in him.

“Me friends,” he exclaimed when Castiel and his entourage entered his office, “welcome ter Hallasholm.”

The Oberjarl’s office was quite large – something Castiel hadn’t expected, judging by the looks of the building on the outside. A large fireplace covered most of one wall, a window taking over the other part. A small fire was crackling pleasantly, successfully driving away the cold that seeps in through the window. The furniture was extensive but not an entirety. It seemed as if the different chairs, ornaments and table were randomly picked, based on what Erak had liked at the time without worrying whether it would fit in. Castiel frowned because for the leader of a country, image was an important indicator of your credibility as it was perceived by other leaders. A messy assemblage as this didn’t vouch for order or diligence.

When his eyes fell on the large chest that was sat in the corner of the room, he suddenly understood. It was made of dark wood with golden details. Superb craftsmanship, Castiel could instantly tell. The lid wasn’t shut entirely; it was held open by the gold coins, grails and jewels bulging over the edge.

The furniture completely consisted of items Erak had collected on raids, originating from a variety of countries and cultures, one even more luxurious and expensive than the other.

They were all offered a place to sit and Castiel couldn’t help but wonder about the amount of blood shed over the chair he sank down in. Copious amounts of beer were placed in front of them, but the Ranger politely declined, and when he asked for a cup of coffee instead, Erak groaned, displeased.

“’S always the same with yeh Rangers,” he grumbled, gesturing for his personal slave to go get some coffee. Castiel felt vaguely guilty for even asking. “I don’ understand what yeh like ‘bout it anyway. Those other Rangers drank it too, nothin’ else.” He grinned as he took a large gulp of his beer, lost in memories. “It’s their fault I’m the Oberjarl now, actually. They helped us save the country from an invasion from the east an’ I got promoted. Had ter say goodbye ter me ship, though. Still missin’ her from time ter time.”

(And there with the stereotype of Skandians being sea wolves. Castiel checked that one off as ‘true’ on his mental notebook, too.)

When the actual debate about the violation of the treaty began, Castiel found himself not having much to say or do. Charlie did most of the talking, while Castiel was mostly there for show, to remind the Oberjarl of why the treaty was established in the first place; and for muscle, should a situation occur in which the diplomat’s life needed protection.

“So,” Erak bellowed, running a hand over his mouth to wipe the remnants of the beer off his face, “ter what do I owe the pleasure o’ this visit?”

Castiel sat back in his chair, the comfortable red velvet coating in the backrest nothing but itchy as he imagined the scenario it was obtained in, and he listened to Charlie speak as she explained what had happened. The raids all over Araluen’s east coast, starting on Seacliff – a small island separated from the mainland by only a small passage of water – then climbing north through Esseldon, Danver’s Crossing and Boyletown to eventually end up in Willow Vale, Castiel’s home, where the damage had been tremendous. None of the other towns had been so utterly destructed, and none of them had experienced such a high death count.

Charlie spoke of the posture of the pirates, with their long, braided beards and giant battle axes. Of the large Wolfships waiting in every bay, the uncanny figurine on the bow terrifying in the darkness. Of the death and despair the raids had brought upon the people and the rightful anger among the nobility; the King in particular.

Erak listened; he gave Charlie his full attention, rubbing a hand over his chin during her entire story. He was clearly not impressed by the reaction and state of the people – he himself had done quite a few raids in the past, when he’d been the captain of his own Wolfship, so his lack of compassion towards the people was less than surprising. Infuriating, however, it still was. Castiel had trouble keeping his expression neutral. His hand balled itself into a fist under the table and he took a deep breath to maintain his composure.

“… and yer sure it was Skandians?” the Oberjarl asked when Charlie had finished her narrative. Castiel only barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the question both Lord Balthazar and King Duncan had plagued him with already.

“Yes,” he answered before Charlie had the chance to do so. She shot him a _look_ which he pointedly ignored. “We wouldn’t be here if we weren’t.”

“There were several witnesses who saw the Wolfship. Their descriptions of the terrorizers matched the appearance of your people exactly,” Charlie intervened, that angry look still aimed at Castiel. Her voice held a note of compassion. “You realize what this means, don’t you?”

The look on Erak’s face when he nodded was one of defeat and disappointment – which gave Castiel the feeling was is someone who could be worked with. He didn’t wave it away like it was nothing to be troubled over.

“It means the treaty b’tween our countries’s been broken,” he said slowly, twirling one of the braids in his blond beard around his finger. “So, I pro’lly got a big problem on me hands, huh?” he smiled grimly. Charlie didn’t answer immediately.

“King Duncan would like to know where we stand,” she stated carefully. “Considering the friendship between our countries – and between King Duncan and yourself, personally – he has no reason to believe that this was your doing.” She shot the Oberjarl a soft smile. “He would like to know what is going on, though.”

Erak’s head snapped up sharply and a tone of anger slipped into his voice when he spoke up, but Castiel could tell that the anger wasn’t aimed at Charlie. “Gorlog’s beard, o’course I had nothin’ ter do with it! The Vallas can drag me down ter the pits of Hell before I’d do somethin’ like that!”

Charlie raised a hand soothingly. “King Duncan knows that. He trusts you,” she assured him. “Do you know what might have happened?”

Erak made a vague gesture with his hand as he took another gulp of ale from his mug. “Could’ve been a lot o’ things,” he replied. “But it’s pro’lly a rogue Skirl. Maybe the patrollin’ ‘ship couldn’ resist the temptation.” He stroked his beard for a while, staring at an uneven spot in the surface of the table.

“Yeh know what, I’ll send a Jarl and me best warriors ter the west, ter see what’s goin’ on and who knows what ‘bout why. Whoe’er did this wasn’ from Hallasholm, fer sure,” he concluded, downing the remnants of his pint and slamming the wooden mug back on the table. Even the legs of Castiel’s chair trembled with the force of it. Erak looked between him and Charlie expectantly.

“That would be great,” Charlie answered. “So, for now, we wait. If you don’t mind, maybe we could be shown our room now? I would quite like to freshen up.”

Erak nodded and beckoned for Borsa to come over. Castiel leaned over to Charlie. “You go ahead. I think I’m going to check on Grace first. I’ll be there soon enough,” he said. Charlie rolled her eyes.

“Fine. You’re an idiot, by the way. Do me a favour and explore the streets a bit while you’re at it.”

Castiel shot her a quasi-offended look. “What else did you think I was going to do?”

 

****

 

The trip from the Hall to the stables wasn’t nearly as bad as the one from the docks to the Hall. Castiel managed to mostly slip through the shadows unseen, avoiding the Skandians entering and exiting the lodge as best as he could. The stables were located on the same grounds as the Great Hall; they were built against the stockade, just across the field. Consisting of the same pine wood as all the other buildings, it was quite a small structure, with only a few separate stables because if there was one thing the Skandians disliked, it was horseback riding.

Castiel only counted three horses there; one of them his own, another one Charlie’s and the third one he’d never seen before. Grace’s dark brown coat blended in with the dark wood of the stable, but the white blaze on her nose stood out when she raised her head and whinnied softly as a greeting. Castiel smiled and pushed back the hood of his cloak as he entered the stable.

“Hey, girl,” he greeted Grace, patting her on her neck gently. It looked like she’d been groomed just fine, coat shining and no dirt underneath her hooves, but the Ranger liked to do it himself to make sure it had been done absolutely perfectly. He didn’t trust anyone else with his horse.

Just as he turned around to grab a curry comb from the rack they were stashed in (there were only few, made of banged-up metal and they all looked like they would fall apart if Castiel as much as breathed on them. He made a mental note to complain to the Oberjarl about it.) he bumped into something solid, sending himself and the other thing stumbling backwards a few steps.

The ‘other thing’ turned out to be a human being, tall and broad-shouldered, and Castiel’s first reaction was annoyance at himself for not noticing the fact that he wasn’t alone in the stables. His second thought was that it was weird Grace didn’t warn, or at least notify, him of the presence of another human being as she normally always does. The third thing that crosses his mind was that _shit_ , he’d probably pissed off a Skandian, which was ill-advised by basically everyone in the world, and his hand subconsciously slipped to the haft of his Saxe knife where it was safely embedded in its scabbard while his eyes raked the body in front of him to check if his opponent had a battle axe or an equally lethal weapon within arm’s reach.

Upon closer inspection, Castiel noticed that the man – because it was definitely a male – while he did have the right height, was too skinny to be a Skandian. His arms were muscled, but not as thick as a Skandian’s would be, and where one of those sea wolves would have a protruding belly and a large beard, the man in front of him was thin and significantly lacking facial hair. Castiel relaxed his tensed shoulders slightly and took a deep breath, still a little upset with himself that he hadn’t noticed another presence sooner. He didn’t let his guard down, however – underestimating unfamiliar people is a mistake he had made once before and had vowed to never make again – as he let his eyes slide over the other man’s body, mentally filing him under ‘Possible Threat – Proceed with Caution’.

“I’m sorry,” came a quiet voice before Castiel got the chance to move or speak up. He belatedly realized that this was a slave, and when the sun reappeared from the dark cloud it was hiding behind, he saw that it was the same slave he had seen earlier in the yard. He forced himself not to soften his expression but to further determine the situation first – this guy _did_ manage to sneak up on him without Castiel noticing. Very few people had been able to do that, especially since he’d become a Ranger.

The slave seemed to sense his recognition as well; he looked even more scared than he’d done that morning and took a step backwards. He cowered when Castiel lay his hand on the haft of his knife, apologizing profusely and stumbling over his own feet as well as his words. The pine wood creaked and gave a low _thump_ when he bumped into the stable wall, curling in on himself in a way that made him look twice as small as he actually was. When he glanced up at Castiel fearfully through the locks of dirty-blonde hair splayed out on his forehead, their eyes finally met and Castiel got lost in the swirls of green his eyes consisted of before realizing that this was the first time the slave actually saw his face.

“I’m sorry,” the slave repeated, eyes flashing down to where Castiel’s hand was still loosely grasping his Saxe knife. “Please, don’t- I’m so sorry.”

The Ranger could feel his hostility and caution crumble as he gazed at the boy, half standing, half fallen down, slumped against the dark, hard and uncomfortable wood the stables were built of. He had to be younger than Castiel, even if only a few years.

Grace pushed him the last yard over the edge by nudging him in the shoulder with her nose, silently telling him to ‘Be nice!’. With a sigh, he released his knife and took a step forward, in the direction of the slave, hands raised and palms forward to show he meant no harm.

When the boy tried to push himself even further back into the wooden wall, tears clearly burning in his eyes and threatening to spill over, Castiel mentally filed him away as ‘Capable but Harmless’, with an eye on the flexing muscles in his arms. He stopped moving and made a soft soothing noise, slowly lowering himself down until he was kneeling, face approximately the same level as the slave’s. The sheer terror displayed on the boy’s face and in his stance told Castiel that his reaction was probably based on previous experience with angry men and knives. He forced the upcoming feeling of nausea in his stomach and throat down.

“Hey,” he said, softly as to not startle the boy, “it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The slave didn’t look at all convinced, didn’t move from his position. Castiel didn’t budge either, remaining unmoving in his kneeling position until he saw the boy’s muscles relax, however little, the tension slightly ebbing away.

“Why don’t you stand up?” Castiel said, not sure whether it was a command or a request himself. It was heart-breaking to see how fast the boy complied, scrambling to his feet and bowing his head as soon as he was up. The Ranger noticed he wasn’t at full height, his shoulders pulled in to make himself look smaller.

“What’s your name?” he tried. The boy inhaled sharply, fingers twisting in the material of his shirt anxiously. His hands looked bony, fingers long but thin, so thin.

“Dean, Sir,” he answered quietly, cringing even when Castiel nodded to acknowledge his answer, scared of every little movement he made. Deciding that the closeness was only helping to spike the slave’s – _Dean’s –_ nervousness, Castiel took a few steps back and, after a last glance at a cowering Dean, turned away to do the task he’d originally come there to do.

Taking a curry comb from the rack, he beckoned for Grace to come closer and, as the horse complied, started brushing the leftover dirt and loose hairs out of her fur. Grace whinnied softly in delight and scraped her hoof across the wooden flooring of the stable, sending a few strands of hay sailing through the air. Judging by the way Dean’s expression softened to something that contained the least amount of fear Castiel had seen on him, he was quite fond of horses.

“I’m Castiel,” the Ranger said, with the lowest amount of grumpiness he could muster up, eyes fixated firmly not on Dean to show he wasn’t watching the kid, not following his every move. “I’m a King’s Ranger, from Araluen. That’s just across the Stormwhite Sea, only a two-week journey if the weather is good.”

Dean didn’t reply and Castiel didn’t push; he just focused on the task at hand and settled for ignoring Dean for the moment, as attention seemed to be scaring him. The scrape of Grace’s hooves against the floor and the drag of the brush against the pony’s coat were the only sounds bouncing off the walls of the stable for a while. The tension was so thick that even Grace could feel it. It made her nervous; she kept whinnying softly and turned her ears in all directions as if seeking for danger. Castiel reassured her with a gentle pat on the neck.

“Where are you from?” he asked Dean when the tension got so thick it became almost tangible. He had just started to brush Grace’s legs for the third time, purely for the sake of having something to do. Dean startled a bit but he didn’t seem to be as terrified as he’d been before. He was still leaning against the back wall of the stable, as far away from Castiel as possible, but he was not on the verge of passing out anymore.

“It doesn’t matter, Sir,” he mumbled, eyes flicking up and down as if he was unsure whether he should make eye contact or be submissive and obedient and keep his eyes downcast. He folded his hands in front of his stomach, head bowed down and shoulders pulled in. Castiel’s stomach lay itself in yet another knot.

“What do you mean?” he asked, tilting his head and squinting at the boy. Dean hung his head lower, twisted his fingers tighter together.

“I- I um, I d-don’t…” he stuttered, shuffling his feet nervously. Even though his head was bowed, Castiel could clearly see that his eyes were wide and his knuckles white from clamping them down too hard.

Dean’s gaze switched to look out into the yard once more and Castiel realized that he was trying to see if there were any Skandians out there to keep an eye on him. He wondered how strict the rules and how bad the punishments here were.

“You don’t need to call me ‘sir’,” Castiel said, not unkindly. Dean trembled and Castiel decided not to put any more pressure on him. The boy seemed to have more than enough on his plate already as it was.

Grace seemed to disagree with him. When Castiel put the curry comb back in the rack and patted some stray strands of hay off his boots, the pony head-butted him in the shoulder so hard he almost lost his balance. Bumping against the wood of the stable wall with his rear end, Castiel glared at his animal companion. Grace looked just as pissed off at Castiel as the Ranger was at her.

“What?” Castiel hissed, voice low so Dean wouldn’t hear. Grace looked at him with those big brown eyes of hers. She ignored Castiel entirely (he was baffled by her audacity. He had just extensively groomed her fur, for fuck’s sake.) and trotted towards Dean, gently nudging her nose against the boy’s hands until he started petting her.

When Castiel took a step forward and opened his mouth to grouch at his pony for betraying him, the words died in his throat, leaving his tongue in a knot and his mouth hanging open. Dean’s hands caressed Grace’s neck gently, almost delicately, gliding over the pony’s dark brown neck in tender strokes. The expression of pure awe on his face lit up the shadows more than the beams of the sun ever would. Grace seemed to enjoy the touches, pressing back into Dean’s hands with obvious delight.

Dean’s eyes sparkled when his hands came up to pet the black manes. He leant forward so his mouth was level with Grace’s ear and Castiel’s heart melted when he caught the murmured words, “Hi there. Aren’t you a sweetheart.”

Grace whinnied in cheerful agreement, pinewood creaking as she stomped her hooves on the floor. After snuffling the slave’s face, she raised her head to gently gnaw on Dean’s hair, something she always did with Castiel when she was particularly satisfied.

Then Dean smiled and Cas was gone.

The smile was brighter than any other smile Castiel had ever seen before. It made the glistening snow outside seem dim and the sunlight dark. Warmth spread in Castiel’s belly and he could feel the corners of his own mouth twist upwards, too. The look of utter peace on Dean’s face was relaxing and comforting to see, however strange and foreign it looked on him.

But the crunch of snow under heavy boots and a shout in Skandian slang Castiel didn’t quite understand shattered the moment. The peace on Dean’s face slipped away at the drop of a hat, shoulders tensing up once again. Castiel could see him trembling even with the several metres of distance in between them. His eyes were the most expressive ones Castiel had ever seen, and right now they radiated nothing but pure fear.

The person that appeared outside wasn’t actually a Skandian, Castiel noticed as soon as he lay eyes on him. His clothes were plain but, contrary to Dean’s, still in one piece. The sheepskin vest was missing from his outfit and he was too skinny and too tanned to be a Skandia native. Another slave, perhaps? But why would Dean be afraid of him then?

Castiel squinted in confusion as Dean shuffled away from the pony with panicked clumsiness, stumbling over his own feet in his haste. “I- I need to-” he stuttered, looking up at Castiel with poorly disguised panic in his eyes. Castiel nodded to signify his understanding.

But Dean still didn’t move. Castiel belatedly realized that he was standing in between the slave and the stable’s door and, though Grace’s presence may have calmed him down somewhat, Dean was still very much afraid of the Ranger. Castiel took a step away from the door – which, because of the confined space of the stables, was a step in Dean’s direction – and gestured for the boy to go. “It’s alright, you may pass.”

The trembling of Dean’s limbs didn’t cease, it just increased. With yet another uncomfortable knot in his stomach, Castiel realized that, perhaps, Dean wasn’t used to being treated like this and his fear was only made stronger by his insecurity about the situation. Perhaps, he was waiting for an order. Praying to God that he wouldn’t make Dean fear him even more than he already did, he put his hand on Grace’s chest and guided the pony to step backwards, turning his attention away from the slave as he said, “You’re dismissed.”

He couldn’t see the expression on Dean’s face and, when he heard the stable door creak as it opened and fell shut again, Castiel was not sure he could count it as a win.


	3. Sweet things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letting go of the arrow was like releasing all his anger in a single breath. As the string whipped against his leather arm protector, the arrow pierced through the air with a hissing sound and slammed right into the small white circle pained on the target he had been aiming at. Before it even reached his destination, however, Castiel reached back once more and retrieved another arrow, nocking it and sending it on its deadly way barely a second after the first one. A third one followed within the span of a breath, all three of them slamming into their different targets with sickening cracks. One of them, the human-shaped one, toppled over.

The alleys of Hallasholm were even more unpleasant to walk through than the main road. At least that one was wide and paved. Even if it looked muddy and was covered in snow, it was solid to walk on. But now, in the narrow pathways just a few streets away from the Great Hall, Castiel could feel his feet sink away into the muddy soil, as if he was standing on quicksand. They made a disgusting, squelching noise every time he lifted them up. He was never going to be able to get the mud stains out of his boots.

Adding his current passageway to his mental map, Castiel wiped his hands on his tunic and tried not to cringe at the repugnant feeling of wetness in his shoes. He silently praised himself for not bringing Grace with him. If she had to plod through all this snow and sticky mud, they would have gotten nowhere.

The sun was setting already. She cast her beams over Hallasholm in various shades of pink and orange and colours the sky as if it was her very own canvas. The clouds only ruined the sight of it a little bit. Long shadows cast by the low-hanging sun wrapped the village up in semi-darkness. Castiel would be able to enjoy it had the gloom not obstructed his vision.

“Okay, that’s fucking it,” he muttered when his foot got swallowed up by the mud all the way up to the rim of his boots. He barely managed to keep the substance from pouring in. Muttering profanities under his breath, he trudged back through the alley, back the way he came from, and dragged himself onto the main road. It felt like he stepped out of one swamp into another, albeit less deep one.

Looking up at the cloud-covered sky, Castiel sighed deeply. “Dear Lord, why me? Why is it always fucking me?”

The only answer he got was a gust of icy wind and a threatening rumble from the dark clouds. Castiel glared at the first of snowflakes when they started falling.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” he muttered as he pulled his cloak tighter around himself and continued down the road to where he could see the stockade poking out of the ground uninvitingly. He had barely been in Hallasholm for a couple of hours and it was already like a real-life fucking nightmare. Just his luck.

Charlie didn’t agree with him. The moment he stepped foot into the guest quarters, she burst out laughing. The change in temperature between outside and inside the Great Hall was so big that he’d burst into a sweat as soon as he’d stepped foot across the threshold. The snowflakes on his shoulders and cowl melted away within seconds, leaving wet spots in his clothing.

The trail of mud he had left from the entrance to the door of his room seemed like too little payback.

“You look like you had fun,” Charlie giggled. She was sprawled out on the large bed in her comfortable clothing. Her hair was damp and her cheeks were rosy. She’d bathed, clearly in warm water – a luxury they were barely ever afforded back in Araluen. Castiel glared at her.

“Even Willow Vale has better paved roads than this town,” he grumbled, shedding his boots before he took another step. “This is horrible – why would anybody want to live here?”

Charlie shrugged as she petted the woollen blankets that were draped over the bed. “I don’t know, it’s not all that bad.”

Castiel shot her a look. “The centre of the town consists of a meadow with sheep.”

“It’s called the Common Green,” she countered, clearly unhappy with his lack of knowledge and respect. “I think it’s a great concept. Everybody gets their own sheep from the government to produce their own wool and milk.”

“And they get stored on communal grounds because no one has any space for their own sheep,” Castiel said, exasperated. “Why don’t they just expand the town? It’s hardly worth being called a city as it is.”

“Maybe they don’t have enough money to expand,” Charlie suggested. “Or maybe they don’t want to.”

“Have you seen the Oberjarl’s treasure? He on his own could build at least three villages just like this one.”

Charlie sighed. “This is their way of life. Just because you think it’s not large enough doesn’t mean they have to change everything.”

Castile rolled his eyes. “It’s just- sheep? Really?”

He huffed indignantly when Charlie’s pillow hit him square in the face. She had impeccable aim. Half-heartedly chucking the pillow back into the general direction of the bed, Castiel hung his cloak over a chair to let it dry and shuffled into the direction of the washing room. “I’m going to take a bath,” he declared. “Don’t disturb me.”

Charlie made a small noise of acknowledgement, already lying comfortably on the spacious bed with her eyes closed. “You should call for someone to boil some water for you. There is nothing in the world that beats a warm bath,” she purred, still basking in the afterglow of it. Castiel stopped dead in his tracks, however.

“You mean order a slave to make me a bath?” he asked. Charlie nodded as best as she could with her head cushioned on the pillow.

“I gave the girl some food after she’d finished making the bath,” she assured him, opening one eye to shoot him a look. “I’m not a total monster. You need to realize, Castiel, as a diplomat in a foreign country – especially an allied one – you can’t refuse to participate in their everyday way of life. You might offend the people here and cause tension between our countries. And that’s exactly what we’re trying to avoid here, remember?”

Castiel bit his lip, mind slipping back to the jumpy slave in the stables. A single word kept repeating itself inside of his head, over and over again. _Dean. Dean. Dean._

The slave had a name. _Dean._ Castiel had a hard time thinking of him as a slave when he knew Dean had his own name; he had his own family out there somewhere, his own opinions, likes and dislikes, dreams and wishes. His own _life_. He had been _Dean,_ once. And the Skandians had taken it away from him. Everything. All of the slaves walking around in the building had a life before this, somewhere. They had all been free people, once.

“I can make my own bath,” he bit, perhaps somewhat ruder than Charlie deserved. He didn’t stop to dwell on it, though. Darting into the other room, he shut the door behind himself loudly and shoved the small metal bar in place to lock it.

He didn’t need anyone to make his bath for him. It was a simple task that he was perfectly capable of doing himself. No one actually needed help making their bath. It wasn’t hard, and having someone do it for you just seemed lazy and vain. Perhaps even cruel, if the one making it for you hadn’t chosen for that themselves. There was a grave difference between King Duncan having a bath heated and prepared for him by his attendants, who had grown up in the city of Araluen or even the castle itself, and who had voluntarily applied for that job and got a salary for it – and between Oberjarl Erak (or any of his Jarls or other nobility) to have slaves, whom they had captured and kidnapped, _forced_ into this life, prepare their baths.

 _Dean._ Castiel wondered whether he had ever been assigned duties inside of the Great Hall, or if he had been doomed from the beginning, forced to work outside in the cold and snowfall every day for the rest of his life. He wondered if Dean had ever even felt the pleasant burn of heated water for him to bathe in. Maybe he had come from a life of poverty and he had never known any form of luxury. Or maybe he had been royalty. Maybe Dean was a long-lost prince who had been captured in battle when he was trying to protect his country.

The image of the boy in the stables came rushing back to him. He’d been so frightened and jumpy. That kind of behaviour doesn’t grow overnight. Castiel breathed in sharply at the realization that Dean had to have been here for a while. How long exactly had he been here already? And what had his life been like before? Maybe he had been taken when he was just a toddler, and this was all he knows.

He quickly discarded that thought. What use would Skandians have of a toddler? That would bring them more work than it would relieve them of. So Dean had to have been at least in his early teens for the Skandians to think of him as useful. He was in his later teens now, almost at the age of maturity if not already – which meant that he had been here for a couple of years.

 _Years. Fuck_.

Castiel slowly sat down in the tub he’d filled with water. It made a cold chill run up his spine and it did nothing to loosen his tense muscles. Perhaps Charlie had made the better choice. A warm bath didn’t sound half bad right about now.

But then those brilliant green eyes flashed across his vision again and he leant back against the stiff wood of the tub.

No, a cold bath was just fine.

 

****

 

As it turned out, the beds were not at all uncomfortable to sleep in. The mattress was filled to the brim with hay and if he was not mistaken, the pillow even had wool stuffed in it, which was very soft to lie on.

They had kept the fireplace burning low all night so the room was comfortably warm when Castiel pushed the multiple woollen blankets off of himself the next morning. He stretched out completely, arms above his head and feet off the edge of the bed. That was the best night’s rest he’d had since he’d set foot on the _Wolfwill_.

“Up and at ‘em, sunshine,” Charlie called, slapping him in the side lightly. She was already dressed in her full attire, ginger hair styled into a neat braid that hung over her shoulder. “The Oberjarl wants to see us.”

Castiel groaned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Now?”

“Yes, now,” Charlie answered, clapping her hands. “Come on, make yourself presentable. We have to be there as soon as possible.”

“What does he want to talk to us about?” Castiel asked.

Charlie draped his tunic over the edge of the bed and shot him a meaningful look. “He thinks he found something.”

“Found something?” Castiel echoed. He crawled up to the end of the bed and slipped the tunic over his head as Charlie nodded.

“On who did those raids,” she clarified. “Borsa came barging in here while you were sleeping like a new-born baby.”

Castiel decided to ignore her as he got out of bed and shuffled over to where he had put his boots the evening before. They were still coated in a layer of dried mud and Castiel groaned in annoyance as he started to pat it off.

Charlie was right; he had been very deeply asleep tonight. The fact that Borsa had apparently entered their room without him waking up from it worried him. He was trained to sleep lightly, to wake at the first sound that was out of place and meant potential danger. If a Skandian really managed to enter their room and speak with Charlie without Castiel waking up, he must have been far, far away. He blamed the uncomfortable journey on the ship and the soft mattress of the bed here.

Slipping his feet into his now somewhat clean boots, he took his cloak from the chair he’d draped it over the night before and swung it over his shoulders elegantly. He messily tied the knot in the two little ropes to keep it there and smoothed out the fabric. His weaponry belt was next, the two knives seated snugly in their sheaths.

“We’d better get going, then,” he urged, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl on the table as he darted out the door. “The Oberjarl doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

He could almost hear Charlie roll her eyes behind him as she rushed after him through the hallways of the Great Hall. The Oberjarl’s quarters were in a completely different part of the building and Castiel huffed, annoyed, when they came across a split in the hallway and he couldn’t remember which way to go.

“Why didn’t Borsa wait for us so he could escort us to the Oberjarl’s office himself, like a proper Hilfmann?” he complained. Charlie grabbed his wrist and tugged him down the hall to the right.

“Because, and I quote, he ‘isn’t a damned servant and he has better things to do than delivering messages to uninvited Araluen pricks’,” she answered, navigating them through the building like she’d been living there for years. Castiel raised his eyebrows.

“Wow. Rude.”

Charlie nodded but stopped him with a hand on his chest. “You look like you just got out of bed,” she said accusingly. Castiel squinted at her.

“That’s because I did,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, well, it’s not a good look on you,” she said. Castiel glared. “You need to look at least presentable if you go to see the Oberjarl. Or anyone of importance, really.” She reached up to his hair and petted a few stray strands of hair back into place, straightening out the fabric of his tunic afterwards.

“Much better,” she winked, and turned around to knock on the door before Castiel could say anything. His “Thank you” remained unheard as a shout of “Come in!” from the other side of the door overruled it. The hinges creaked as Charlie swung the door open and stepped across the threshold, Castiel following her as silently as a shadow.

Besides Erak, there was another Skandian present in the room; Gundar. Castiel didn’t try to suppress the little grin that graced his face at the sight of the large man. Gundar’s smile was broad and loud as he crossed the room in just a few steps to wrap Charlie up in a bear-hug. She gave a small, breathless noise when she was actually lifted up off the ground.

“It’s good to see you too,” she wheezed out, massaging her ribs as Gundar put her back down.

Castiel took a step backwards as the Skandian approached him next. “I’m not really a hug person,” he admitted. A deep laugh thundered out of Gundar’s chest.

“Sure yeh ain’,” he bellowed, slapping a hand on Castiel’s shoulder a couple times instead. The Ranger’s knees buckled precariously under the weight and force of it. “Weak, yeh Rangers, that’s what yeh are. All o’ yeh.”

“Maybe we’re just fond of our ribs,” he proposed, triggering another howl of laughter from the Skandian. He quickly stepped aside when the hand threatened to come down onto him once more.

Erak scraped his throat. “Ranger Novak, Miss Bradbury. Thank yeh for comin’. Take a seat.”

Castiel sank down in the same chair he’d sat on the day before and watched as Charlie gracefully took place in a nicely crafted oak-wood chair. “What seems to be the rush?” she asked.

Gundar pulled back a chair of his own from the table and flopped down into it. The expression on his face shifted to a more serious one.

“It’s kinda hard ter figure out who could’a done it, ‘cause there’re so many ships out there e’ry day from Hallasholm alone. But! None o’ them would have any business that close ter Araluen. I don’ allow ‘em to ‘nymore,” Erak explained. Charlie nodded, brows creased in a frown as she pondered. It was funny how her eyes lit up and her face cleared as he could almost see the switch click in her head.

“But there’s one Wolfship that’s always close to Araluen,” she said slowly. Gundar nodded.

“The patrollin’ Wolfship,” he confirmed. Castiel leaned forward at that, one hand clutching the armrest of his seat tightly. His eyes slid over Gundar’s features, a hot anger building in his belly and making its way up to his chest. The Wolfship patrolling the coast of Araluen, the one they had called to the coast to take them across the Stormwhite Sea. The Skirl of that ship was…

“You?” he fumed, voice lower than he had expected it to be and laced with angry disbelief. He stared at Gundar incredulously, at the man he had started looking at as a _friend_. White-hot anger made his chest flare up and constrict at the same time. His breath came out ragged and uneven as he shot up on his feet, chair clattering to the floor behind him. He barely felt Charlie’s hand on his arm, trying to soothe him, as he took a step forward and pointed an accusing finger across the table. Images of the raid, the fire, the lifeless bodies sprawled over the place flashed before his eyes and he balled his hand into a fist, fingernails digging into his palm.

Gundar, however, shook his head. A grim look settled over him. “Nah, not me. That’s what Erak thought at first, too. But we’d only jus’ arrived there. Hadn’t even been there fer two full days when yeh demanded us ter come ashore.”

Castiel took a deep breath as he let the news sink in. Okay, so it wasn’t Gundar. A wave of relief washed over him, but the Skandian’s words did raise another question. As if she read his thoughts, Charlie voiced it.

“So which ship was it, then?”

Gundar pulled a face, scratching his neck. “Honestly, I’ve no clue. I’d ne’er seen it before, I don’ think. Couldn’ really see properly in the dark. It wasn’ nothin’ special, neither. They didn’ even say anythin’, just went away ‘soon as we got there. Wasn’ nobody I know, that’s fer sure.”

Castiel held back a snort. All Wolfships looked the same. Sure, the figurehead on the bow was (slightly) different on every ship but they were all similar. Especially in falling darkness.

“So, if I understand correctly,” Charlie started, “and do correct me if I’m wrong, we _think_ that this Wolfship patrolling Araluen’s coast performed the raid, but we don’t know for sure and we also don’t know who its Skirl is.”

Erak thought it over for a second before he nodded. “That ‘bout sums it up, yeah.”

Charlie nodded and rubbed her temples. Castiel huffed. “So we’re basically still nowhere.”

“Not exactly…” the Oberjarl trailed off. Charlie’s head shot up and Castiel narrowed his eyes at the man.

“What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?” he asked. Erak looked at him as if he had grown another head.

“Well, there’s a schedule, o’ course,” he said pointedly. “There ain’ a single Skirl that suddenly thinks ‘Oh gee, why don’ I go hang out along the coast o’ Araluen for a couple o’ weeks instead o’ makin’ good money elsewhere’ by himself. There’s a schedule fer what Skirl goes when and fer how long.”

Castiel turned his head to look at Charlie just as she turned to look at them. She looked just as exasperated as he felt.

“So, where is this schedule? Did you write it down?” she asked. Erak shook his head.

“Oh, I didn’ make it,” he elaborated. “I had me former Kirril make it, me second-in-command. See, he got this injury after a trip to Arrida an’ he couldn’ go out for a couple o’ weeks. He had nothin’ ter do, so I asked ‘im to set up a schedule. He was real’ proud o’ it when he finished, too.”

“And you don’t know where he put it?” Castiel asked. “He must have stored it somewhere around here, right? How else would the Skirls know when to go?”

Erak made a noise of disagreement. “Nah, yeh see, he lets ‘em know well on time so they can schedule other trips an’ business ‘round it. I gave him the job an’ I trust him with it. I don’ get involved meself.”

Castiel had to fight the urge to facepalm. “Where is this second-in-command of yours?” he demanded. “I’d like to have a talk with him.”

The Oberjarl shot him a look that was a mixture between calculating and a glare. “Me _former_ second-in-command. Back when I was still a Skirl. His name’s Svengal. But he ain’ here. He went out on a trip not too long ago. Won’ be back fer a while, pro’lly.”

Breathing in deeply, Castiel barely managed to keep himself in check. As if the entire situation wasn’t enough, the fact that the Oberjarl casually referred to horrid raids as mere ‘trips’ had his blood boiling. “How long is ‘a while’? This is an urgent matter. We really need to find this Skirl as soon as possible.”

Erak waved his hand vaguely. “’Couple o’ weeks, maybe? I don’ know. He hasn’ been gone real’ long.”

“A couple of weeks,” Castiel repeated, an unamused smile on his face. “That’s great. Amazing, really. I take it we won’t be leaving here for the duration of those weeks?”

The question was aimed at Charlie. She nodded thoughtfully. “If the Oberjarl doesn’t mind, of course. When we took this mission, we pledged a vow to the King that we would to everything in our power to bring the miscreant to justice. As long as there is a lead to follow, it would be wrong of us to leave.”

Erak waved her comment off easily, a surprisingly friendly smile on his face. “O’ course yeh can stay here. ‘Long as yeh need. Maybe Gundar can show yeh ‘round, give yeh a tour o’ the city.”

Both Charlie and Gundar were nodding before he had even finished talking. “Yeah, I think that would be great,” Charlie said. “We really do appreciate everything you're doing for us; the room, the food, helping us find who did this. It means a lot.”

Erak shot them a soft smile that Castiel already knew was rare. “Anythin’ fer a friend.”

 

****

 

The tour turned out to be more helpful than Castiel had expected it to be. After all, what could really be worth visiting in a small town like this?

Hallasholm was, in the end, larger than he thought. Gundar took them on a very educational tour through the city. Firstly, they passed the small tavern that sold only ale – though in different mug sizes – and grilled fish, and the ridiculous mid-town meadow with the horde of sheep, and Castiel hadn’t been able to conceal his lack of excitement. But after a more thorough look at the harbour, which stretched out along a wider strip of coast than Castiel had originally noticed, he found himself gradually revising his opinion of Hallasholm. A large harbour meant import and export of goods, thus trade and a well-stimulated economy.

But the best was yet to come. After they had seen the harbour, they took off towards the forest – where, as Gundar told them in a long, nearly incomprehensible history lesson, some Rangers had built an archery practice field years ago. It was not too well-looked-after, as the Skandians didn’t practice archery, but it was in well enough shape. Half hidden in the trees and vegetation, there were human-shaped targets as well as shapeless blobs of hay, all positioned different distances away from the shooting spot. Even in its slightly neglected state, it was better than the training area Castiel had set up near his cabin back in Willow Vale; a lot more spacious and with more variation.

“Those two Rangers built this, years back. Skandia was bein’ invaded by the Temujai – they live in a country in the east – an’ the Oberjarl, who wasn’ Erak back then, by the way, asked ‘em fer help. So they used the slaves – can yeh believe that? The slaves – an’ trained ‘em to make this mini army o’ archers. ‘Bout a hundred of ‘em, there were. And in jus’ a couple o’ weeks, those two trained ‘em so well that we won. We couldn’ve done it without ‘em, that’s fer sure. Anywho, this is where they practised. Feel free ter use it if yeh want.”

“I definitely will,” Castiel grinned. His fingers were itching to get a hold of his bow, which he’d left in their room, safely wrapped in the piece of cloth he always kept it in when travelling.

“Looks like you’ve found something to do in your spare time,” Charlie chuckled. “Speaking of which, I’d better go tell the rest of our delegation that we won’t be leaving for a while.”

Castiel nodded. “I’ll meet you back at the Great Hall.”

They parted ways and Charlie went back to the harbour to the _Wolfwill_ , where the Araluan soldiers remained for the time being. Maybe now, for they would be staying at least a couple of weeks longer than originally planned, they would want to find a room in the tavern instead of on the ship. Castiel and Gundar walked back onto the main road to return to the Great Hall.

“I ain’ given yeh a tour o’ the Hall yet, have I?” the Skirl realized as they passed through the opening in the stockade. The Ranger shook his head, eyes darting across the yard in search of that one particular slave.

“Not just you, no one has yet,” he answered. Gundar clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“I’ll give yeh one righ’ now,” he proposed. “Yeh can show yer missy ‘round yerself later, huh.”

Dean wasn’t there. Castiel nodded distractedly.

The Great Hall, as Castiel had already concluded, didn’t have much to offer – so the tour Gundar supplied him with was brief. The room you found yourself in when you entered the building was the dining room. This was used for formal dinners and parties, but also as a gathering place after a funeral. As Gundar vividly liked to describe, Skandian tradition was to get together after a cremation – because they cremated all their dead – and get drunk to honour the deceased. Which, Castiel thought, was a strange way of honouring someone’s fallen spirit. But who was he to judge?

Gundar proved the Great Hall to actually be a glorified lodge, albeit in not that many words, by merely pointing in different directions and explaining what was behind those doors instead of taking Castiel inside to show him. The place apparently wasn’t big enough to do that and, according to the Skandian, he would be able to find his way around with his eyes closed after a couple of days.

To the right of the dining room were the Oberjarl’s personal quarters and the personnel’s quarters, which were connected to the guest rooms through a series of hallways. There were storage rooms here and there, but with no particular pattern and it was not like Castiel had any interest in where the Skandians kept their buckets and brooms stored. On the left side of the dining hall was a door that apparently lead to the kitchen, where slaves worked around the clock to have food prepared and to clean the building. Castiel had to force down his curiosity about it, because Gundar made no move to go inside – and sneaking around when you’re a guest is generally frowned upon.

“What about the slaves’ quarters?” he wondered aloud instead. “Where do they stay during their free time? Where to they sleep?”

Gundar shrugged, as if the topic didn’t really interest him. It was all so normal to him, so run-of-the-mill, that he didn’t give it much thought. “They’re slaves, mate. They ain’ got free time. They sleep back there, as well. There’s a bunch o’ bunk beds righ’ there next ter the ovens. Nice an’ cosy. They ain’ gettin’ cold over there.”

Castiel stared at him. “Next to the ovens? Doesn’t that get way too hot?”

Gundar looked at him as if he was crazy. Castiel felt a little naïve under his gaze. “Maybe, I don’ know,” the Skirl slurred. “It’s got ter be better than the yard slaves’ barracks. Those get real’ fuckin’ cold at night.”

Castiel could feel his eyes quickly growing wide. “Yard slaves’ barracks? ‘Really fucking cold’?” he parroted. His thoughts quickly drifted to the green-eyed slave he’d met the day before in the stables; Dean’s insufficient clothes and how the temperature dropped even further at night. It had been so cold that even the massive fire in the Hall seemed meagre in their fight against the frost.

Gundar stared at him in silence for several moments. “They’re jus’ slaves. Why’d’yeh care so much?”

Castiel forced the memory of frightened green eyes to the back of his mind as Charlie’s words echoed in his ears. He couldn’t offend any of the people in this country, especially while they were in this position. “No reason,” he replied. “Just curious. I barely know anything about slavery. Could you tell me more about it? You know, the capturing, trade, placing; how it’s done?”

He felt filthy for the way he worded the question, cringing internally while he bit on his tongue.

Gundar seemed satisfied with the answer. He gestured for the nearest slave – which happened to be a petite brunette with long hair and dark eyes. Castiel’s eyes followed her until she disappeared through the kitchen door. Only minutes later, she returned with two large mugs filled to the brim with ale in her hands. Castiel was impressed by how she managed to not spill even a drop of the beverage. He would have had half of the mugs’ contents lying on the floor by now, if he’d carried them himself.

He thanked the girl with a nod and a smile, which she returned politely before retreating to the kitchen. Gundar took a sip of his ale and turned to Castiel, a mocking smile on his face.

“So, yeh want ter know more ‘bout the slaves, huh? Well, it ain’ really all that interestin’. ‘S mostly on the job, yeh know? When yeh get ter diff’rent countries like Gallica or Arrida, there’s plenty o’ tough, suitable people there. So yeh take ‘em, as a prize, and erm, if yeh don’ have ter pay the Oberjarl, yeh sell ‘em on the market, ter the highest bidder. Yeh can get some good money off ‘em that way.”

Castiel swallowed down the bile in his throat. “So you always… sell them? You never keep them yourself?”

Gundar snorted. “Nah, what’s a Skirl goin’ ter do with a slave? Keep ‘em on his ship? They’d only be in the way. And sellin’ ‘em brings in a lot o’ money. Or yeh pay yer taxes with ‘em, so yeh can keep yer gold.”

“You pay your taxes with human beings?” Castiel couldn’t keep the note of anger out of his voice. He quickly took a few gulps of his ale to hide the expression on his face. Gundar merely shrugged.

“With slaves, yeah,” he answered. “Yeh have ter pay a part of yer income as taxes to the Oberjarl. He needs the slaves ter work in an’ ‘round the Great Hall an’ I get ter keep me loot. E’ryone’s happy.”

 _Except the people you robbed of their freedom_ , Castiel thought bitterly. He bit his tongue angrily. “So what happens to them if you hand them over to the Oberjarl?” he asked.

Gundar pursed his lips as he pondered. “Borsa places ‘em somewhere, dependin’ on their physique. The ones that can’ handle labour usually go ter the kitchen. Mostly gals, sometimes smaller fellas, too. The bigger, tougher ones that can do some hard work’ll be sent out ter the yard. Awful work, but eh, that’s why we don’ do it ourselves.”

The Skirl nudged Castiel in the side with his elbow as if he was making a great joke. Castiel smiled tightly and sipped on his ale. “What kind of work to they do?” he asked. Gundar shrugged.

“E’rythin’ that’s got ter be done ter keep us warm,” he said. “It’s a cold country, this, even in summer. They collect wood, keep the fire burnin’ inside, make sure the water in the wells don’ freeze over, that sort o’ stuff. There’s pretty much always need for new ones, ‘cause they don’ hold out for long, yeh see? That’s why yeh got ter look for the tough ones when yer out on a job. The Oberjarl’s always happy with new ones, so they’re more valuable than kitchen slaves.”

Castiel looked at him sharply. “What do you mean, ‘they don’t hold out for long’?” He was almost sure he knew the answer already, but he hoped he was wrong.

Gundar finished his ale and slammed the mug down on the table with a contented sigh. He waved his hand in a vague, meaningless gesture. “Oh, yeh know, it’s hard work out there. I do appreciate that. After a while, they can’ handle it ‘nymore. It’s cold, it’s tough, they collapse eventually an’ then they need ter be replaced.”

A wave of nausea washed over Castiel mercilessly. “Don’t you think they should be cared for better?”

“Erak’s made life a lot better for ‘em already,” Gundar said, twisting the empty mug around on the table with a small pout on his face. “They’ve been lastin’ quite a bit longer since he became the big boss.”

Castiel nodded. His blood was boiling in his veins and he wouldn’t be surprised if steam started to come out of his ears. Chugging the rest of his ale back, he put the mug back down, fingers twisted around the wood so tightly his knuckles turned white. It was probably part rage, part alcohol that made him ask, “Are there any Araluen people kept here as slaves?”

His tone was brusque and ireful and he purposely avoided looking at Gundar in a half-hearted attempt to conceal the outrage burning in his eyes. The Skandian sounded offended when he answered.

“No, o’ course there ain’. Most of ‘em were released when those two Rangers helped us win the war and ‘cause o’ the treaty, no others have been captured since. There might be some left – not outside, o’ course, they’re long dead a’ready. But maybe in the kitchens. One or two that got overlooked. I don’ think there’s any left, though.”

Castiel nodded. “Good.” He stood up so sharply that the bench they were sitting on was pushed back several inches. “I think I’ll be off to my room. Charlie should be back by now; we have a lot to discuss, still.”

Gundar nodded, a confused and slightly hurt glint in his eyes. “Sure. I’ll catch yeh later, kid.”

“Don’t call me kid,” Castiel grumbled. He took off without another word and didn’t look back until he slammed the door to his and Charlie’s shared quarters shut behind himself. The redhead had indeed returned already. She was sat in a chair at the table, several maps and books splayed out in front of her.

“Hey,” Castiel greeted her. He undid the knot of his cloak and draped the garment over the back of a chair. “How did our crew take the news?”

Charlie smiled as a manner of greeting. “They weren’t too thrilled about it, but they’re not complaining. Thank God. I would hate having to report laziness and impatience back to the King. They would be without a job within the week we got home.”

Castiel chuckled. It was true – there was no place for lazy soldiers in the King’s hard-working, well-trained army. Even if Araluen currently enjoyed an era of peace, King Duncan made sure to always have an army at the ready in the background. Battleschool was still a popular career decision among youngsters. Castiel himself had even considered becoming a soldier before he had eventually applied for the Ranger Corps. Now, he wouldn’t change his decision for the world.

“You and Gundar looked pretty cosy over there,” Charlie wiggled her eyebrows. “What were you two talking about?”

The Ranger bit the inside of his cheek and averted his face. “Nothing,” he lied, striding over to where he had stored his most valuable belongings in a chest in a corner of the room. Groping for the large key in a pocket of his uniform, he opened the large lock on the front and carefully retrieved the folded cloth containing his bow and arrows.

He could feel Charlie’s eyes burning in the back of his head as he locked the chest once more and rose to his feet, swinging the quiver over his head onto his back. The twelve arrows seated in it rattled softly and Castiel smiled at the sound. He’d missed that feeling and that sound on their trip so far. Over the years, it had become a part of him, the gentle press of the quiver against his shoulder blades.

“You alright? You’re acting a bit weird,” Charlie asked. Castiel nodded stiffly.

“I’m fine, if a little irritated,” he answered. The by now familiar rage started flaring up from where it had been reduced to a smoulder. “The Skandians are all over the place. They’re the most chaotic, vulgar people I’ve ever encountered with and the way they treat others is sickening and outrageous.”

He sucked in a deep breath as his eyes met Charlie’s. She was looking at him with a frown on her face.

“The Skandians are a bit unorganized,” she agreed. “If they’d had that damned list here, our whole problem would have been solved and we’d be long on our way back to Araluen by now.” She let a silence fall over them. Castiel’s breathing was remarkably loud in the quiet room. Only the crackling of the fire overruled it. “But that’s not what you meant, is it?”

Castiel looked away.

“You’re still mad about the slave thing,” she accused. “Castiel, you _cannot_ let this get to you! We are guests in this country, and we’re already taking an offensive stance by presenting the situation in Trelleth to him. No matter how friendly and hospitably the Oberjarl is, he is not happy about having us here because we are interfering with the everyday course of events and now he has to take care of a lot of other problems beside the usual stress of leading a country. The tension between Skandia and Araluen is thick as it is – you absolutely _cannot_ make it worse than it already is.”

“‘The slave thing’?” Castiel repeated incredulously. “Those Skirls kidnap people from their villages after burning them to the ground and then sell them to the highest bidder! How can you sit there and preach to me about respecting their culture and kissing their arses when they’re robbing innocent people of their freedom?” he spat, stomping through the room to the door. The chair wobbled precariously as he grabbed his cloak off it.

“That is none of our business right now!” Charlie protested, and she moved in front of Castiel to block his exit. “I don’t like it either but we are on a mission! You need to distance yourself from your personal opinions and do the job you were told to do!”

The edges of Castiel’s vision were starting to turn red. His face was burning up and both his hands were balled to fists, one wound tightly around his bow. He took a step forward, into Charlie’s personal space, and poked a finger in the soft silk of her diplomat’s uniform. “Don’t you tell me what my job is,” he hissed, towering over her so far she was wrapped completely in his shadow. “I chose to become a Ranger – not for the incredible pay or the pleasant hours and nice, exotic trips – but because I wanted to help people. I wanted to make a difference in their lives. I wanted to make it better for them – you know, catch criminals, prevent people from being robbed or hurt or murdered. I certainly did _not_ become a Ranger to stand by and watch as innocent people suffer because some lazy, fat, spoiled people refuse to get their hands a little dirty!”

He breathed in heavily, chest working up and down as he caught his breath. Charlie looked at him like she didn’t know what to say, her expression a mixture between shock, confusion and displeasure. With a final, annoyed huff, Castiel pushed past her through the pine wood door, letting it slam shut behind him as he strode off through the maze of hallways. His face still felt hot; he was sure he had red blotches on his cheeks and he felt the nearly overwhelming urge to punch something, anything. He was close to putting his fist through one of the walls.

Gundar was gone when Castiel entered the Hall and the Ranger slipped out of the building and out into the yard unseen. The frosty air was like a slap in his face and he closed his eyes, letting out a deep sigh. His breath came out in a small white cloud and he could almost feel the frost on his lips. With a final angry huff, he swung his cloak over his shoulders, secured it with a messy knot and pulled the cowl over his head. The wool provided his ears with a nice, warm protection against the Skandian cold and it hid his furious expression as he made his way across the yard and through the streets of Hallasholm to the forest. The shooting range was exactly the way they’d left it a few hours ago – deserted, close to the village but far away enough for Castiel to be completely alone and undisturbed. The pine trees bowed slightly in the icy wind that swept across the land and Castiel shivered. The cold air calmed him down somewhat, but he was still fuming. Leaves rustled and branches cracked underneath his feet as he stomped his way into the forest towards the place from where he could aim best.

He gritted his teeth angrily as he drew his bow and took an arrow from his quiver in a practiced, elegant movement. As he nocked it, the sharp point still aimed at the ground, he breathed in deeply and closed his eyes, focusing on the sounds of the forest. The rustling of the leaves in the breeze, the squeaking of seagulls he could hear all the way from here. He breathed in the earthy forest air and the sharp scent of pine wood. The wind was predominantly headed towards the north-east and, with that in mind, he opened his eyes and raised his bow, hands guiding it towards the nearest target smoothly. The muscles in his shoulders and back stretched and bulged and he pulled the arrow back until its feathers tickled his nose and his thumb rubbed against his chin. He took in the distance between himself and the target and the strength of the wind and adjusted his aim. He smiled. Perfect.

Letting go of the arrow was like releasing all his anger in a single breath. As the string whipped against his leather arm protector, the arrow pierced through the air with a hissing sound and slammed right into the small white circle pained on the target he had been aiming at. Before it even reached his destination, however, Castiel reached back once more and retrieved another arrow, nocking it and sending it on its deadly way barely a second after the first one. A third one followed within the span of a breath, all three of them slamming into their different targets with sickening _cracks_. One of them, the human-shaped one, even toppled over.

Castiel stood at ease, another arrow at the ready on his bow, clutched between his fingers, and watched his handiwork with a contented nod. He hadn’t been able to practise in a few weeks and even if he had tried to ignore it, his hands had been itching to do this again.

He pulled the fourth arrow back on the string, took aim and breathed out as he let go. It went bull’s-eye into another target, this one an even farther distance away. Castiel grinned. Weeks of practice that he had missed out on but he hadn’t lost it yet.

As he nocked the next arrow and aimed it at a target to his far right, he noticed a small movement in the corner of his eye. When he turned his head to find the source, he saw the branches of a bush bobbing up and down. He gazed at the spot for a while, even turned his head away; sometimes, movement can be easier caught from the corner of the eye. The movement didn’t return, though, so he shrugged it off. It was probably just a wild animal. A rabbit, maybe, or a pheasant. There were plenty of those roaming these woods.

When his fifth arrow drilled a hole in the next bale of hay, he heard a startled gasp, soft but sharp, and he spun around immediately to look at the intruder.

The boy was standing several metres away from him, the thick rope of the sled he was pulling still slung over his shoulder. His hands were wrapped around the rope tightly as he watched the Ranger with wide eyes. Castiel eyed the sled, which was laden with freshly-cut pine tree trunks. His clothes were ragged and his shoes were unfit to be walking around the snowy forest in.

Castiel only barely caught the colour of the boy’s eyes before he turned around and walked away hastily, confined in his movements by the heavy sled. He watched as the slave retreated, slowly yet hurried, and he didn’t move his gaze away until the boy had disappeared between the trees. Only then did he step forward to retrieve his arrows, movements slow as he replayed the moment over and over in his head.

The boy’s eyes had been green.

 

****

 

When Castiel got back to their room, Charlie was still there, scribbling something down on a roll of parchment. He didn’t bother to try and read it. Charlie didn’t look up from her work when he entered the room, nor when he took of his cloak and shoes and even pulled his tunic over his head because _fucking Hell_ why was it always so _hot_ inside the Great Hall?

They sat in silence for a while, which was only broken by the scribbling of Charlie’s pen on the parchment and the clinking of the ink bottle whenever she dipped her pen in it. She was probably still mad. Though Castiel knew she had every right to be angry with him, thinking of their altercation made his heart beat faster in anger again. Maybe he had been out of line, but he was not going to apologize for it.

Apparently, Charlie was thinking the same thing because the silence stretched on for so long even Castiel became fidgety. After she finished writing the letter – Castiel guessed it was a status report to either the leader of the Diplomat Corps or to King Duncan himself – she packed away her utensils with more noise than necessary and eventually turned to Castiel with a deep sigh. For a moment, it looked like she is going to lecture him again, to tell him he needed to apologize – whether to her or to Gundar – but she bit her tongue and swallowed those words back.

“How long until dinner, do you think? I’m starving.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow but walked over to the window to open one of the shutters and peek outside. The sun was already hanging low on the horizon, casting pretty colours in the sky and long shadows on the ground.

“Less than an hour, I think,” he answered. If she wanted to completely ignore the elephant in the room, he was okay with that.

They gradually fell into a routine after that evening; Castiel got up early every morning, before the sun had even risen, to go for a run and do some exercise. Even when they weren’t in enemy territory, he had to keep his stamina and strength up. By the time he had finished his rounds, the sun was up and casting her beams across the icy land. They seemed to give less warmth with every passing day.

After his exercise, Castiel went back to his room to bathe and change into his uniform. Charlie was awake by then, too, and had already bathed (in a warm bath) and dressed herself in the elegant, white dress the Diplomats’ uniform consisted of. In winter or in countries with a colder climate, she wore leggings under it and she owned a cape made of thick wool to wear when outside.

When they were both clean and dressed, they went to the Great Hall for breakfast and made small talk with the senior Jarls that resided in Hallasholm. Sometimes, the Oberjarl joined them and they stayed at the breakfast table longer to chat with him and to keep the tension between them to a minimum.

After breakfast, Castiel went back to their room to retrieve his bow and quiver and Charlie waited for him at the exit of the Great Hall so they could walk through the city together. Most of the time, she visited the other members of their delegation, who were now staying in the tavern in the centre of the town, and he continued on to the forest for his daily dose of archery practice. Sometimes, Charlie joined him and watched him shoot arrow after arrow at the targets, all of them reaching their destination flawlessly in the centre of the white dots. They either made small talk, discussed the problem at hand (which still wasn’t solved) or they reminisced about home.

 

 

Because if he was being honest, Castiel was starting to get a little homesick. They’d been away at sea for nearly three weeks, plus the added weeks they’d had to wait in Skandia for a solution to present itself, they had been away from home for almost two months now. Castiel missed his cabin in Willow Vale; the woods that consisted mostly of broadleaf trees; his friends in the village. Even the weather. It might be rainy for the better part of the year but at least the temperature was mostly pleasant and snowfall was usually kept to a minimum, especially in the coastal fiefs.

Charlie, of course, missed different things than he did: life in the castle; loud, sociable dinners every night in the dining hall; parties and balls organized every now and then in the honour of nobility. But most of all, she missed her girlfriend, Gilda. She could go on and on for _hours_ about how great her girlfriend was, how good of a cook she was, all the fun things they always did together. Castiel always rolled his eyes and teased her for it, but he secretly thought that it was kind of cute. Charlie’s stories and the happy glow she got in her eyes every time she told one almost made him wish he had someone like that in his life.

Being a Ranger, while he loved it and wouldn’t change it for all the riches in the world, could get kind of lonely. Most of him time was spent practising, patrolling; he was away on small missions a lot, sometimes also on bigger ones. Small things only took a couple of days to sort out, but when he was sent out on a larger one, he usually didn’t return home for months on end. So time for romance didn’t really exist in a Ranger’s life. Sure, some Rangers had girlfriends or wives, but there was a reason that most of the Corps was still single; and it was not their grumpiness or their untamed beards. The loneliness had never really bothered Castiel, though. He was used to being alone, and he was perfectly content with what his life looked like.

After practise, they went for lunch in the tavern and for the remainder of the afternoon, they walked around the town to explore the narrow alleyways and dark shortcuts, mentally mapping out a plan of Hallasholm’s escape routes. It was a habit for Castiel – he would have done it in their first night here if he had been short on time, but now that they didn’t really have anything to do for several weeks, he figured it could be done more gradually. There was no expectation of a real threat, after all.

They went to the market, sometimes, buy some fresh fish and fruits and to make small talk with some of the more open people at the stands. Most of them were still very closed off to the outsiders. Castiel figured it was just caution towards foreigners. He had seen it a lot in Araluan commoners, too.

Dinner was served in the Great Hall by the kitchen slaves. Castiel still had trouble swallowing the food with the slaves walking around the room, dragging the pots and pans back and forth.

The better part of the meals consisted of poultry in different sauces with a side of vegetables. And ale. There was always plenty of ale. Castiel mostly steered away from it, as did Charlie. They only had the occasional mug when they were joined by a high-ranking Skandian. He didn’t like not being in total control of his mind and his body.

Finally, when dinner was finished, they retreated to their room to clean up and get some me-time before calling it a day and going to sleep. The next morning, when the fire in the hearth had reduced to glowing coal and the night’s frost came creeping in through the cracks in the wall, Castiel got up and it started all over again.

But the routine was broken when one night, Castiel couldn’t sleep. He lay awake on his back, staring at the ceiling with one arm propped behind his head. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and worries, tumbling over and through each other in their haste to be heard. It was driving him mad. His temples were starting to ache already and even though his eyes were itchy and irritated, he just couldn’t fall asleep. His body might be tired but his mind was still wide awake.

Maybe a walk would do him good. That was what he always did back home, in Araluen – he would get up, go outside and wander around in the woods for a while, just enjoying the scent of fresh air and the nightly sounds of the forest. Sometimes, when there was an onshore wind, he could smell the salt of the sea, taste it on his lips. A small pang of pain shot through his heart. He missed home.

He pushed away the heap of woollen blankets on the bed and got up, silently in a way only Rangers knew how to manage. A glance over at Charlie’s bed told him she was still sound asleep. She had the duvets tucked up tightly; only her eyes and nose peeked out above the thick fabric. Every time she breathed out, some fibres on the blanket trembled. Castiel smiled. It was actually quite endearing. He tip-toed across the room to not wake her and slipped on his tunic over his night clothes. The extra layer of clothing would be no unnecessary luxury at night, when the temperature dropped even further and the sun could do nothing to stop it.

The sheep’s fur embedded on the inside of his boots felt warm and comfortable on his feet in comparison to the chilly breeze that came through the slits in the shutters and the cracks in the wall. He quietly swung his cloak over his shoulders and secured it, pulling the cowl over his head as he stepped out the room. Hopefully it would keep his ears warm.

He left his bow and quiver in the room, along with his weaponry belt. He did take his throwing knife out of its sheath, just in case. It was short enough to fit into the leather belt resting loosely around the waist of his tunic without stabbing him in the leg.

The hinges on the door creaked sharply when he opened it. He tensed and glanced over at Charlie to check if it had woken her up. She nuzzled her face further into the feather-stuffed pillow, but otherwise didn’t stir. Castiel waited for about a minute, just to be sure, before he slipped out the door and closed it behind him as quietly as he could. The iron hinges barely made any noise this time.

The hallways were deserted, as he had expected – it was deep into the hours of the night and no matter how much the Skandians like drinking and partying, they did have jobs and responsibilities in their everyday life and one could say what they will about them, they did take their work seriously.

The fire in the large hearth of the Great Hall was still burning as hotly as it was during the day. The heat of it still got to Castiel’s throat every time. It always felt like he was breathing in the fire itself. The warmth it spread was very welcome, though, especially at this hour of the night. He doubted the temperature in Araluen ever dropped to this level.

The fire gave more than enough light to see by inside the Great Hall. It even made red spots dance in front of Castiel’s eyes. It was so bright in comparison with the darkness surrounding him.

A sudden movement near the windows made him stop dead in his tracks. Even though he couldn’t see a damn thing outside because of the light of the fire inside, he sneaked up to the window and carefully peeks outside. A slim figure was pacing around, arms wrapped tightly around themselves to preserve his body warmth. Castiel couldn’t make out any details about them but he could see that the figure was cold and he knew it was too late for anyone to still be working. The slaves had a strict curfew to prevent them from wandering off during the day.

Castiel pushed the door open and stepped out into the cold, cursing as soon as the icy wind sliced at his cheeks. The moon was up, though her light was blocked by the clouds littering the sky. The layer of snow covering the ground had thickened even more during the few hours of night that had passed. It reached halfway up Castiel’s boots already. His toes felt colder with every step he took. Snowflakes fell down from the clouds soundlessly. They made the barren landscape look a little softer.

The figure didn’t seem to notice him approaching at first, too wrapped up in their own mind even though Castiel’s feet crunched the snow beneath them noisily. When they did notice him, they whirled around and stumbled backwards in panic, barely managing to stay upright. As Castiel’s eyes got used to the darkness, he was able to see more details in the person’s face. It was a man, slightly if not wholly terrified, and… familiar.

“It’s okay,” Castiel said softly as he raised his hands. Looking the boy in front of him over, he raised an eyebrow.

“Dean, is it?” he asked. The boy sharply gasped in a breath. Castiel stopped moving in. “What are you doing out here, at night? In this cold?”

Dean stopped moving; he completely froze. His voice, when he spoke, was trembling almost as much as his limbs.

“I- I- I was j-just-” he stammered, cowering under the Ranger’s invisible gaze. Castiel took pity on him and let the cowl fall away from his face. The frost instantly got to him and he could feel the tips of his ears and nose turn red rapidly, but he kept his expression neutral and his eyes – hopefully – friendly. He slowly approached Dean with his hands raised. His cloak covered his throwing knife and kept it out of sight, thank God. That would do nothing to aid the situation right now.

“Do you remember me?” he asked gently. He didn’t push, just stood across from Dean, a few metres away from him. Even from that distance, he could hear Dean’s heavy breaths. “I’m Castiel. We met a while back, in the stables.”

He was pretty sure Dean hadn’t forgotten their encounter in the stables little over a week ago but it seemed like the right thing to say at the moment. Or at least, Castiel couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Not having expected an answer, he was a bit surprised when Dean nodded, eyes flicking up to Castiel’s face for a short moment before dropping down to his feet.

“Ah- good, that’s good,” he said, and tried to keep his voice as low and non-threatening as possible. “Now, what are you doing out here? Why aren’t you asleep?”

“I- I’m- I d-disobeyed,” he croaks, voice barely above a whisper. “I w-went against t-their rules a-and t-their authority.”

Castiel frowned. “Okay.” He doubted Dean would actually do something like that. “But why aren’t you inside? You should be asleep by now. In your bed. Not out here in the cold.”

Now it was Dean’s turn to frown at him. “Because I disobeyed,” he repeated in a small voice. “I-I broke the rules and I’m not allowed back in the- in the sleeping quarters.”

Castiel was stunned. His frown deepened and his eyebrows pulled together in righteous anger. “You what?!” he hissed, completely forgetting to be careful around Dean. “You- you ‘disobeyed’ so they throw you out into the cold?!” His voice rose in volume with every syllable until he was yelling, voice extra loud in the silence of the night. “You could die out here! You’re not even wearing proper clothes!”

Dean recoiled, backing up until his back was pressed up against the Great Hall. His breathing was ragged and his lips had a blue tint to them. The cold had drained the colour from his face until his skin was nearly as pale as the snow around them, though his fingers had taken on an angry shade of red.

When Castiel noticed the fear in the boy’s eyes, he took a step back. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m not mad at you, I promise.”

Dean just stared at him. “C’mon, let’s get you inside,” Castiel said. Dean’s eyes looked like they were about to pop out of his skull. “You’re freezing. We need to get you warmed up before you die from hypothermia.”

Dean looked hesitant and not any less scared, but when Castiel extended his hand for him to take, he slid his hand into the Ranger’s and let himself be guided into the Great Hall.

The heat there was once again overwhelming and Castiel grumbled as he pushed the cowl off his head. He could already feel the sweat forming on his back.

Dean, however, had a completely different reaction to the warmth than he did. The boy’s green eyes were wide in surprise and disbelief and his pale face was quickly turning red. The trembling of his limbs only increased, though, and Castiel was a bit worried that the sudden change of temperature could be harmful to him. Dean looked like he was about to pass out.

“Are you hungry?” Castiel asked him. The boy whirled around to face him so fast Castiel feared he was going to suffer whiplash. Timidly, he nodded, eyes trained at the ground. “Let’s get you something to eat, then,” he proposed. Dean shot him a confused and sceptical look but followed Castiel to the kitchen anyway. (Castiel tried very hard not to think of the word ‘obediently’.)

Luckily for them, the door to the kitchen wasn’t locked. The heat in there was less intense than it was in the Hall, for it came only from a single, smaller fire that the slaves used for cooking. Apparently, they quenched it at the end of the day. The only thing in the makeshift stove right now was a heap of drenched coals. The heat of the fire in the Great Hall leaked through the wall but it was muted and the temperature in the kitchen was comfortably warm instead of scorching. The smell was nicer, too. Instead of the lingering stench of sweat and beer in the Great Hall, the kitchen smelled of freshly-baked bread and grilled fish.

Dean was still trembling and his lips hadn’t taken on a healthy colour just yet. Castiel sat him down in one of the pine wood chairs that were stashed in a corner. The edges of his ears and the tip of his nose were bright red. It was kind of adorable.

Castiel shook himself out of that thought and started to wander through the kitchen in search of food. Judging by Dean’s skinny arms and sunk-in cheeks, he didn’t get enough food here, especially considering the hard work he was forced to do every day. Castiel could imagine what that felt like. His last mission in Arrida had been less than successful; he’d gotten lost in the desert with little water and less food and he’d had to get himself and his horse back to civilization. He had never experienced hunger as he had then and it was an experience he would not forget any time soon. It had been terrible; it made you feel lightheaded and dizzy, like you couldn’t stand on your own two feet. Other days, it had you feeling weak and nauseous and trembling. And having to function through that weakness – having to travel in scorching heat or work your ass off in the numbing cold – it was horrifying. Those few days in the desert were worse than that time he’d gotten shot in his left arm and he couldn’t use his beloved bow for over a week, or that time he’d been trampled by a horse and had broken a rib. He didn’t wish that feeling upon anyone. He wanted to help Dean stop feeling that way.

He took off his cloak and gently draped the fabric across Dean’s shoulders, wrapping him up in it like a blanket. Dean stiffened from the closeness but as soon as Castiel stepped back, he nuzzled into the woollen cloak, a confused expression on his face. When his eyes met Castiel’s, the edges of his lips curled upwards ever so slightly before he cast his gaze downwards again. It was such a small movement that Castiel wondered if he’d seen it correctly, but he smiled back nonetheless.

The kitchen was freakishly clean and suspiciously void of food. It seemed that the slaves cleaned up the kitchen thoroughly after the last meal of the day – which, Castiel guessed, was not unnecessary considering the large amount of people that dined here every evening. It was bound to leave a mess.

Castiel made a small noise of victory when he found a bread in one of the cupboards. He took a knife off the rack of kitchen supplies and a plate (he had stumbled upon that cupboard earlier in his search for food) and started cutting up the bread. It was cold by now and a bit tough; it took a surprising amount of strength to cut through the crust. Castiel guessed it hadn’t been baked that day, but that didn’t matter – it was food, it was edible and even though it might be a little old, it still smelled good.

He sliced it up into smaller pieces and offered the plate to Dean (after he cleaned the knife and stored it away out of sight). The boy was still in exactly the same position Castiel had left him in – sat on the edge of the chair, hunched in a little with his hands folded nervously in his lap. He looked up, surprised, when Castiel handed him the plate. He seemed hesitant to take it at first but the Ranger didn’t let up.

Eventually, when Dean had finally convinced himself that this wasn’t some cruel joke, he dug in, looking at Castiel with a disproportionate amount of thankfulness in his eyes. The Ranger let his eyes glide over Dean’s features while the boy was too preoccupied with his food to notice. His fingers were bony, still trembling slightly where they picked up piece after piece of bread. His jawline was too sharp to be healthy and under the pink blush caused by the warmth, his skin was sickeningly pale. Castiel wondered how he managed to stay upright. He looked like he was sick – exhausted and underfed. Castiel’s heart ached from how small Dean looked wrapped up in his long cloak. The dark fabric made his skin look so pale it almost seemed to be glowing. He had freckles, Castiel only now noticed. They decorated the skin across his nose and cheekbones, standing out sharply. Castiel resisted the urge to touch them.

“Don’t eat too fast, you’ll get a stomach ache,” Castiel remarked with a small smile as Dean gobbled down three pieces of bread in record-time. The boy stopped short in his movements, dropping the piece he had in his hand back to the plate. Castiel tried to make his expression look soft and non-threatening. “It’s okay, the bread’s all yours. Just slow down a bit. We’re not in a hurry.”

Dean sat there, frozen, for a few more moments before he continued to chew. He took his time now, though, chewing slowly and waiting a few moments before moving on to a new piece. He kept stealing glances at Castiel, like he was afraid the other man was going to lash out if he’d eat too quickly. Castiel sighed but didn’t say anything else about it. He didn’t want to make it even worse.

“What could you possibly have done that was so bad they felt the need to lock you out?” he wondered, mostly to himself. His voice was soft, even in the silent kitchen, and the only indication that Dean had even heard him was how he froze. His hands gripped the edges of the plate anxiously as he glanced up at Castiel, lip caught between his teeth.

“I disobeyed,” he whispered, voice raspy and uncertain. Castiel hadn’t even necessarily wanted to voice the question out loud, let alone expected an answer, but he bit his tongue and made sure he didn’t move as to not spook the boy. Dean was willing to answer, to talk to him, so Castiel shut up and listened. “They gave me an assignment and I- I didn’t finish in time.” He actually looked ashamed as he averted his gaze and his cheeks coloured a darker shade of pink. Castiel clenched his fist and breathed heavily through his nose to contain his anger. He didn’t want to snap at Dean again but the way the slaves were treated here got him _so angry_.

“You didn’t finish in time?” he repeated through gritted teeth. “And they think that’s a good reason to lock you out of the dormitory and make you stay outside in this cold?”

Dean shrugged and avoided his eyes. “They need to keep me in line, Sir. If they don’t show discipline, it would become a mess. No one would listen anymore.”

Castiel grabbed the now empty plate from Deans hands and walked over to the large bucket of water in the corner to rinse it off, purely for the sake of having something to do. “You shouldn’t have to listen to them,” he gritted out bitterly. The plate could have shattered from the force with which he put it down. Dean flinched.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Castiel said softly. “You’re supposed to be living a normal life, have a normal job that you enjoy and that you _chose_ to do.”

The silence that fell was tense and Castiel mentally cursed himself. He’d scared Dean again. The boy was fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, shoulders pulled up so far they almost touched his earlobe.

“Who are ‘they’?” he asked, voice low and eyes fixated on the plate in front of him. He didn’t see the expression on Dean’s face.

“The Committee,” Dean answered after a moment. “They’re this group of senior slaves. They’ve been here so long they’ve gained a bit of authority. They give the other slaves assignments so the Skandians don’t have to worry about that.”

Castiel found himself to be increasingly disgusted with every piece of information he gained on the Skandian slave system. He didn’t answer. Instead, he dried the plate with a towel that he had found in yet another cupboard and put it back in its place. As his eyes raked over Dean’s clothes, an idea popped into his head. He strode over to the door and tried to ignore the way Dean flinched when he walked past him.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back,” he said. He didn’t wait for an answer, but darted out of the room and crossed the Hall and several hallways until he had reached the door of his and Charlie’s room. She was still asleep, the pile of blankets on top of her moving up and down in the rhythm of her breathing. Castiel sneaked across the room to his own bed, under which he’d stashed his personal belongings. He grabbed his spare pair of boots and an extra shirt. It was made of knitted wool, so it was definitely not wind-proof, but if you wore another shirt underneath it, it should keep you warm.

The hinges didn’t creak this time when he closed the door and he breathed a sigh of relief. There still weren’t any Skandians up yet. The moon had set, in the meantime, and when Castiel glanced out a window, he could see some stars peeking out from behind the clouds.

When he got back to the kitchens, Dean was still there, waiting for him. He looked surprised when he spotted the items of clothing Castiel was carrying. His confusion turned to shock when Castiel crossed the room and handed the clothes over to him. Dean made no move to put them on.

“What- are these for me?” he asked, timid with a small voice. Castiel nodded.

“You can’t stay out there in this weather with just the clothes you’re wearing now. You’re going to freeze to death,” he said. “Just- put them on, okay? They’ll keep you a little warmer. It’s not much, but…”

He trailed off and let the sentence die. Dean shook his head in disagreement as he let the fabric of the cloak slip off his shoulders, pulling the sweater over his head and smoothing out the fabric. “It’s plenty,” he murmured, still a little disbelieving. The look in his eyes was open and grateful when he gazed up at Castiel, though his voice was barely above a whisper, still. “Thank you.”

Castiel simply nodded. He watched in silence as Dean discarded his own shoes and slipped his feet into Castiel’s. They seemed to fit perfectly, and the sheepskin embedded on the inside of them must have been a lot warmer than the thin leather of his old shoes.

“Where are you from?” The question took even Castiel by surprise. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It had just nagged at the back of his mind as memories of almost two weeks prior came back to him. Dean hadn’t answered the question and it had piqued Castiel’s interest.

Dean looked up from where he was tying the laces on his newly obtained boot. His face was pensive and hesitant for a moment before he went back to the task at hand. Castiel ran a hand over his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I shouldn’t have asked that. It’s none of my business. I didn’t mean to pry.” He felt bad about it. Dean was already so jumpy, he didn’t need a stranger sticking their nose in his business.

Dean didn’t reply, not even when he finished tying the laces in a neat bow. “I should go back,” he said instead. “If they notice I’m in here…” He shuddered as he trailed off, like that was something he couldn’t bear to think about. Castiel felt even worse.

“You can’t go back out there. It’s too cold. Even with warmer clothes-”

Dean cut him off by standing up. He looked shy and a little unsure but he crossed the room towards the door. “I’ll sleep in the stables. I always do when they lock me out,” he said, like it was nothing. Like that was not a horrible thing to have to do. His voice was still soft and wavering, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to speak. “It’s not as cold in there and the horses are warm. It’s quite nice, actually. And the horses don’t seem to mind the company, either.”

It was the most Castiel had heard Dean talk up until then and he didn’t know how to respond. He was baffled that Dean’s living conditions were so bad that he was happy about sleeping in a stable, alongside the animals. “Yeah, I’m sure Grace would love your company. She really liked you last time,” he said instead of voicing those thoughts. They were walking towards the exit of the Great Hall, now. Dean was starting to get a little fidgety.

Dean frowned at him, confused. “Grace?” he parroted.

“My horse. I believe you met her before you met me, about two weeks ago?”

Realization shone bright in Dean’s eyes. “Oh, the new one. That dark brown mare.” A small smile graced his lips. “I didn’t know her name was Grace. That’s pretty.”

Castiel smirked. “Why, thank you. I thought of it myself.”

Dean’s smile didn’t slip away at the sound of his voice, this time. “I like it. It suits her.”

Castiel snorted. “I’m not so sure about that.”

Dean grimaced when he pushed the door open and a rush of cold air forced itself inside. He stepped across the threshold anyway. The snow enveloped his feet and he looked down in pleased surprise when the cold didn’t reach his feet instantly. His eyes wandered back upwards until he was looking at Castiel.

“Thank you,” he whispered. The words were almost lost to the wind. Castiel only barely heard them. It surprised him that he meant it when he answered, “Any time.”

Dean started walking away in the direction of the stables and Castiel’s stomach lay itself in another knot with every step the boy took away from the warmth of the Great Hall. Away from him. His mind was screaming at him that he couldn’t leave the boy to sleep in the stables, but he knew that if the Committee already locked him out because he had failed to finish a task in time, what they would do to him if they found him inside the Great Hall would be much worse. It was a thought Castiel didn’t want to finish.

And he didn’t have to when Dean turned around after a few metres to speak a single word.

“Araluen,” he said. Castiel just stared at him, wondering why Dean was standing still in the snowfall in the middle of the night just to mention Castiel’s homeland.

“What about it?” he asked. Dean shrugged one shoulder awkwardly, avoiding his eyes.

“It’s where I’m from.”

He turned back around and continued to the stables. Castiel stood there, facing the cold but with heat in his back, staring at the spot where Dean’s form had disappeared in the fog.

He hadn’t expected to receive an answer to that question and now that he had, it took a minute for it to sink in. The rage that started boiling in his veins was more than righteous anger. It was more than the injustice he felt every time he would see a slave at work, more than the uneasy feeling of ‘this is unfair, they should’ve had the same chance I did’. This was an offense to Araluen as a nation, to the treaty that had been established for years, now. It was an insult to Castiel’s entire profession, as a protector of the people. And above that, it was an insult to Castiel himself. His town was burned to the ground by Skandians while he did nothing. And now, Skandians had apparently taken one of his people. The people he was supposed to protect. The people he had failed.

Castiel slammed the door to the Great Hall shut harder than he had to. The noise echoed through the empty room. As he strode through the hallways back to his room, he promised himself that he would make Erak regret this.


	4. Blame me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean sent him a weak smile. “I used to be afraid of Rangers,” he admitted. His voice came out quiet, like he was unsure he should tell an actual Ranger this. Castiel thought it was kind of funny how the people thought of him and his, though it could be annoying at times. “My dad always told me these stories about Rangers, to scare me into being good, you know? Like, ‘If you don’t listen, the Rangers will come in the night and take you from your bed’. He told me that Rangers were actually these evil creatures that had carved themselves out of the shadows of the forest. That they’re a species of demons. They’re ruthless, and just the look of them is enough to kill you. And as if that’s not enough, they also carry weapons. A bow and quiver, with twelve arrows in it.”
> 
> Dean glanced at Castiel’s face. The Ranger couldn’t help the amused grin on his features. The stories were ridiculous. He had heard his fair share of them in his life and Dean’s version wasn’t even the worst of them. “People say that-”
> 
> “That a Ranger carries the lives of twelve men in his quiver,” Castiel mouthed along, grinning. “You know, that is the one part your dad got right.”

That promise was put on hold before Castiel could even begin to try and fulfil it.

The first thing he did in the morning was go to Erak’s personal quarters. Borsa was standing next to the door, blocking his entrance. Erak was preoccupied and couldn’t receive any guests right now. Castiel had grumbled but deflated and made sure to come back later that day. But then, too, Erak had no time for him.

Days passed while Castiel tried his absolute best to get a hold of the Oberjarl, but there was always something. _He’s not available, he’s in a meeting_ , or _He has important business to tend to_ , or _He’s out of town at the moment. He won’t be back for a while._

Castiel saw Dean around the grounds at irregular intervals. They chatted, sometimes, when there were no Skandians or members of the Committee around. Or when Dean was on stable duty, Castiel would go there, too, to groom Grace and to be around Dean without having to watch out. It was nice. It felt natural, talking to Dean, even if their conversations were rushed and tense. Dean got less anxious with every short conversation they had and he was definitely not scared, or even really wary, around Castiel anymore, but the hand that had wrapped itself around Castiel’s heart squeezed a little tighter every time he saw Dean’s face and thought about the promise he hadn’t yet kept, even if Dean didn’t know he made it in the first place.

“So, how’ve you been?” Castiel asked him in the stables one day. Dean looked up, somehow still surprised that Castiel was talking to him despite the numerous short conversations they’d had over the past couple of days. It was a stupid question and Castiel knew it, but it was the only one his brain supplied him with.

“I’ve been fine, Sir,” Dean answered. He was refilling the stables with a fresh heap of hay while Castiel was brushing non-existent dirt off Grace’s coat. He thought it was a stupid question as well and he was not too good at hiding it. “Just the usual. How is your mission coming along?”

Dean wasn’t stupid, of course he had noticed that Castiel was not a native in this country and that he was staying as a guest in the Oberjarl’s building. So he had to be someone important. Castiel had told him that he couldn’t go into detail about the reason of their visit, but that it was something political and important, but not big enough for his king to go himself. Which was a little bit of a lie – King Duncan would have gone himself, had he not had more important business to attend to. Something more close to home.

“Slow,” Castiel answered honestly. “We’ve kind of hit a wall, but we expect that problem to be solved soon. Hopefully.”

Dean looked up from his work. “You expect or you hope, Sir?” he asked. Castiel decided to ignore the title and shrugged.

“That depends on your definition of ‘soon’. If soon is within this week, then I hope. If it covers a slightly longer period of time, I expect. Erak better get his shit together by then or he’s going to be the one hoping.”

Dean let out a surprised bark of laughter and slapped his hand in front of his mouth a second later. There was no sign of a smile on his features but there was a certain glint to his eyes that Castiel hadn’t seen on him before. “Did you just insult the Oberjarl?” he whispered. Castiel shrugged again.

“Not directly,” he answered. “But he is starting to get on my nerves. It might not be long before I start taking on direct insults.”

Dean bowed his head to hide his smile and Castiel smiled back. The little moment was disturbed, however, when he spotted a member of the Committee glaring through the stables. Castiel decided to not get Dean into any trouble and left the stables, with a rushed but soft greeting to Dean.

Castiel got angrier and more irritable with each passing day. It was like his rage at the situation had embedded itself inside of his skin. Like it was right there, all the time, heated but not ignited. And as days went by without him seeing the Oberjarl even once, it took less and less for that rage to start boiling.

Charlie noticed, of course she did. She tried to talk to him about it but it was a sensitive topic (everything was a sensitive topic to him at the moment) and he knew she would only lecture him about The Slave Thing. Because that was all it was to her, apparently. A problematic and loathsome situation in a foreign country that they had no say in and thus shouldn’t interfere with. Just the thought of what she would probably say set him off.

So when she mentioned his irascibility, his grip on his anger slipped a little and he yelled at her. He wasn’t even sure what he was saying, he just threw accusations and lines from their earlier argument at her and stomped out the door as soon as his mind stopped supplying him with an angry vocabulary. He stayed in the woods for the remainder of that day, practising his aim and shot and even took out his knives. The tree he was duelling with didn’t put up much of a fight but it felt good to get it out of his system.

When he finally returned back to his room that evening, when the sun had set and the last remnants of her light were quickly fading from the sky, Charlie was there, too, sitting at the table with her pen and parchment as usual. She looked up when he entered and didn’t take her eyes off him for several minutes before she finally looked away. She didn’t say anything, which Castiel appreciated, but it annoyed him at the same time. He didn’t know what he wanted anymore, what to do with himself. He felt like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. The waiting was driving him insane but it was the entire situation that was bothering him. The situation that was even more fucked up than they had thought it was.

A few days later, Castiel was ready to tear his hair out of his skull. Because Erak was still _busy_. Castiel spit out the word like it was a despicable disease.

“Busy?” he repeated Borsa’s words. He was at least as tall as the Hilfmann, maybe even a few inches taller, but the other man didn’t waver even a little bit in the face of his anger.

“Yeah, busy,” he stated. “He don’ have time fer yeh.”

Castiel was seething. He was hot, he could feel his face is burning and he wouldn’t be surprised if his skin was red all over. Both his hands were clenched into fists by his side, nails digging into the skin of his palm. He was trembling from his ire, gritting his teeth in annoyance. It took everything he had to contain it, for his words to come out at a normal volume.

“When will he have time for me?” he asked. The underlying anger was dripping from his every word. Even his voice trembled. Borsa didn’t look the least bit fazed.

“I don’ know.”

Castiel had to turn away so he wouldn’t punch the Skandian right in the jaw. He breathed in deeply, did his best to contain it. After a few seconds, he felt more in control. His hands remained clenched as he turned back to Borsa.

“Could you tell him I’d like to see him as soon as he’s got some time to spare?” he asked. The words were drowning in fake politeness but if Borsa noticed, he didn’t let it show.

“Yeah, yeah, sure. I will.”

Castiel shot him one last glare before turning away and striding off. He was still fuming and the heat in the Great Hall was not helping. Every hot breath he took seemed to fuel the rage burning inside him. He could feel it biting in his nostrils and stinging in the back of his throat.

Charlie caught up with him before he got the chance to go anywhere. She had to throw her full weight into it to stop him.

“What is going on with you?” she asked him when he had stopped trying to push past her. “You’ve been acting off for days now and I’m willing to let you do your thing where you push away your feelings and don’t talk about them with anyone and I’m fine with giving you space but you have _got_ to get your shit together.” She was panting a little from her rant but her grip on his shoulder didn’t loosen. “You can’t go around and abreact on everyone.”

Castiel glared at her hand. “Let go of me.” His voice was dangerously low and anyone else would have done what he said. Charlie either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Castiel suspected the latter.

“ _No_ ,” she bit, shaking his shoulder a little. “Are you even listening to me? You _cannot_ act like this! It’s unprofessional and disrespectful.”

“Fuck that,” Castiel spit, pulling away from Charlie’s grip sharply. She tried to follow him but he stopped her with a single hand. “I don’t care if I’m being ‘disrespectful’. These pricks need to be told the truth for once.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s gotten into you but seriously, knock it off,” Charlie hissed, slapping his hand away. “Don’t you realize what’s at stake here? We could lose Skandia as an ally. The treaty could be broken because you’re being an asshole.”

Castiel scoffed and used his entire height to tower over Charlie. It was a dick move and he knew it, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Do you even hear yourself? These people don’t even know what manners are. They’re not just going to end the treaty because someone was being ‘unprofessional’.” He made air quotes as he said it to emphasize his point. “Just because you’re hypersensitive about manners doesn’t mean we have to tip-toe around everyone and everything.”

He turned and walked to their room without giving her a chance to answer. Rushed footsteps behind him told him she was following him. He ignored her and quickened his pace. The door slammed against the wall when he threw it open and he crossed the room in a few large steps, going for his weaponry belt. The two knives were seated snugly in their sheaths as Castiel fastened it around his waist. He placed his quiver on his back and his bow went around his shoulders, as it always was when he travelled within Araluen.

“What are you doing?” Charlie asked. She usually had a great grip on her emotions, but now she barely managed to disguise the annoyance in her voice.

“To get some practice,” he growled. His cloak waved dramatically when he spun around and walked for the door. He was sure Charlie would be rolling her eyes at him if she wasn’t so pissed off. Hell, he would even be rolling his eyes at himself if he didn’t feel like he was going to explode with rage. “Don’t disturb me.”

Charlie opened her mouth like she was about to say something but Castiel cut her off before she could. “I mean it. I don’t want to see you right now.”

The walk down the hallways to the Great Hall was reduced to a blur with reddened edges. The dining hall was packed with Skandians, kitchen slaves manoeuvring through the tables with trays laden with ale. Castiel barely noticed them as he strode through the room and out of the door. He was so angry he didn’t even hear the noise they made. All he heard was a static in his head, the song of his anger.

The cold air hit him like a slap in the face but he didn’t stop walking. The breath of freezing air he took in burned in his nostrils and he wouldn’t be surprised if his lungs were covered in a thin layer of frost.

He heard it before he saw it. The sickening _crack_ of a whip pierced through the static in his ears. He couldn’t place it at first; it was muted somehow. The grunt right before and the cry of pain right after only registered when the cold bit harder than the hurt and fury raging in his heart.

His vision slowly slid into focus and what he saw was like fuel to his inner fire. A tall, skinny but reasonably healthy-looking man was standing in the middle of the grounds. His feet were spread wide for balance and he had something clutched in his right hand; as far as Castiel could tell, it consisted of multiple pieces of rope with knots in them, all tied together at the end with a different fabric. Leather, probably. It cast strange shadows on the glistening snow as the man waved it around, the muscles in his back and arms working with every harsh strike he delivered.

His victim was kneeling in the snow. The fabric of his pants was soaked at the knees and ankles and his hands were bound together in front of him. Castiel could see the sloppy knot in the rope from a distance away. The boy’s shirt was torn apart at the back already and the skin visible through the rips was coloured a bright crimson. As Castiel stood by and watched, the man lifted his arm, pulled it back and then swung it forwards again. It came down onto the boy’s back, hard, and he cried out in agony as he jolted forward with the force of it.

When his eyes raked over the boy’s body and his torn shirt, Castiel froze. The shirt was made of dark, knitted wool that he knew all too well. It was exactly the same as the one he always wore on a nice, quiet evening in his cabin back home. It was the one he lent Dean.

Castiel saw red.

He didn’t remember striding forward and grabbing onto the whip before the man – who he could see now was probably a member of the Committee – had the chance to bring it down onto Dean’s skin once more. He didn’t remember punching the guy in the face and he didn’t remember hearing a _crack_ as the slave’s nose broke under the force of it. Yet here he was, holding the guy’s shirt by the collar with one hand, the other one clenched in a fist and raised in the air threateningly. There was blood on his knuckles, he could feel the warmth of it as it trickled down his hand onto the snow where it stood out like a rose in a field of daisies.

Castiel was seething. His vision blurred and there was a pounding pressure at his temples. And though he knew that he was taking it too far, that he was way out of line, he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

The slave wriggled himself out of his grip and took a few steps back, glaring at Castiel. “What the Hell is wrong with you?” he yelled, clutching his nose with his free hand. Blood kept steadily flowing from his broken nose. A purple bruise was forming on the skin around it already. Castiel felt a dark kind of satisfaction at the sight.

“Me?” he growled incredulously. “What do _you_ think you’re doing? You have no right to do something like this.”

“Of course I do,” the slave grumbled, “I’m in the Committee.” He said it like it was a hard-earned title, like it gave him the right to hurt a human being, someone who was in the same miserable situation as he was. Castiel punched him again, in the stomach this time. The slave doubled over, gasping for breath. The whip slipped from his hand and fell into the snow, sending a cloud of snowflakes dancing through the air.

Castiel turned to Dean and knelt in the snow beside him. The boy cowered and let out a soft sob. He was clearly trying to hold it in and Castiel’s heart broke all over again. He put his arm around Dean’s shoulders and pulled the boy in, mindful of his back. Dean resisted for a moment before completely falling into him, resting his head against Castiel’s shoulder and turning his body to lean against his. Castiel made shushing noises and whispered sweet nothings into the air between them. He was not making any sense but sense wasn’t what Dean needed right now, anyway.

Castiel went for the restraints on his wrists first, untying the knot easily. He let the rope slip off and drop down onto the ground as he put one hand on the back of Dean’s head and the other on his arm, rubbing up and down in an attempt to provide him with some comfort. It seemed to work; Dean’s erratic breathing and hitched sobs lessened quickly as he regained control over himself. His hair was softer than Castiel had expected it to be and the strands tickled his skin as he ran his fingers through it.

There was some shuffling behind them and an angered voice cut in. “Get the fuck out of here,” it spat. It was the slave Castiel punched, the one that had done this to Dean. His voice sounded a little thick from his broken nose. Castiel held Dean a little tighter.

“No,” he refused, glaring at the slave with an unwavering determination in his eyes. The kid, however, wasn’t impressed and lashed out at Dean, kicking him in the back, on his sensitive skin. Dean howled in pain and collapsed forward. Castiel could only barely hold him up. He felt Dean’s tears dripping onto his tunic as they fell from his eyes.

“That ought to teach you to do your Goddamned work instead of chatting with strangers,” the Committee member sneered. “Get your ass out of here. And don’t let me see you loitering again, or so help me God…”

He didn’t finish his sentence but the bright red marks on Dean’s back were enough of an indication of what might happen. Castiel opened his mouth, ready to object and to let the slave know who was of a higher rank here when he felt Dean pull away from him. He tried to keep the boy there, tucked into his side where he was safe, but Dean slipped from his grip and struggled to get onto his feet. He was trembling from cold and pain, swaying slightly as he tried in vain to find his balance. His eyes were glazed over and there were tears glistening in them still, trailing soundlessly down his cheeks.

Castiel scrambled up and grabbed a hold of Dean’s arm, preventing him from walking away. He turned to the slave who was glaring at the both of them with bared teeth. Castiel didn’t even have room to feel guilty that he was apparently the reason they had done this to Dean. All he could feel in that moment was the white-hot fury flowing through his veins, igniting his body from the inside. His grip on Dean’s arm was tight but not bruising and the boy made no move to pull away from him.

“He’s coming with me,” Castiel said sternly. He left no room for disagreement as he backed away from the group of slaves that had gathered around the commotion. Going for the Great Hall, he pulled Dean along. He needed to get Dean inside, needed to get his injury taken care of before it got infected. Before it got even worse than it already was.

“You have no right,” the slave bit, stalking forward and letting the whip sway threateningly. Dean hid himself behind Castiel’s back. The older slave pointed to the side of the Great Hall. Castiel guessed towards the yard slave’s barracks, which Gundar had told him were located behind the Great Hall.

“Get back to work,” the slave barked. “Don’t make me tell you again.”

As Dean pulled his arm out of his grip once more, Castiel started to grow desperate. He watched helplessly as Dean slowly backed away in the direction the slave had pointed him. Castiel started to object, wanted to yell at the member of the Committee that he was the one without any rights, that Castiel could do as he pleased and if he wanted to take Dean inside, he bloody well could. But a barely noticeable headshake from Dean let the words die in his throat. Their taste was bitter on his tongue and made his throat close up.

He didn’t say anything. He swallowed the words and his pride and turned away. The door to the Great Hall felt heavier now than it had when he’d gone outside. With a last – hopefully apologetic – glance at Dean, he let it fall shut behind himself.

He didn’t know where he wanted to go now, as he had been headed for the practice field, but he didn’t have to decide. When he turned around, he bumps right into a Skandian’s belly. Disgruntled, he took a step backwards and glared up at the man’s face. It was Erak.

Castiel had to take a calming breath and count to ten because of-fucking-course _now_ of all times he suddenly was available. The Oberjarl looked just as pissed-off as Castiel felt. His face was like the thunder and his eyes could almost cast lightning.

“My office,” he grumbled. “Now.”

Castiel spread his arms and rolled his eyes. “Finally,” he sighed. Erak’s glare darkened and he turned away, leading the way to his private quarters. Castiel followed, feet dragging. Now that he finally had an opportunity to speak with the Oberjarl for the first time in over a week, all he could think about was how Dean was out in the cold right now, all alone with his back hurt badly. Castiel wanted to do nothing more than to walk back outside, find him and provide him with some much-needed comfort. With Dean’s headshake in the back of his mind, he dug his fingernails into his palm and followed Erak through the maze of hallways instead. If Dean didn’t want him to follow him, Castiel respected that wish.

The door slammed shut behind him harder than it had to when they arrived in Erak’s office. The Oberjarl’s shoulders were tense and squared, making him look even broader than usual. He was pacing the room angrily and Castiel was starting to feel a little like a trapped animal. Instinctively, he stayed close to the door, even though he had no intention of leaving.

Finally, Erak walked up to his desk and settled behind it. He didn’t sit down, just leaned heavily onto the wood. The desk creaked a little under his weight. (Castiel was pretty sure it was mahogany, which didn’t grow in Skandia. He wondered briefly which country Erak had taken it from.)

“What on Earth do yeh think yer doin’?” Erak asked. He sounded oddly kept-together. His voice was dangerously low, in sharp contrast to his usual volume. Castiel hadn’t heard him talk this softly in, well, ever. He narrowed his eyes and squared his shoulders, meeting Erak’s burning gaze steadily.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied flatly. He was lying through his teeth; of course he knew what Erak was talking about. But he was not going to keep his mouth shut about this anymore.

The Oberjarl slammed his hands down onto the table forcefully in frustration. A few pieces of parchment and a quill that were lying on it jumped up with the force of it and clattered back down. One sheet fluttered onto the floor soundlessly. “Yeh ain’ that fuckin’ stupid!” he yelled. “That whole fiasco jus’ outside, that’s what I’m bloody talkin’ ‘bout!” His face was quickly turning red and specks of saliva flew across the desk. Castiel was glad he was standing a few metres away from the man. He kept his eyes hard and didn’t look away from Erak’s furious face.

“I was standing up for someone who was unrightfully tortured in your care,” he sneered. He was getting angry again just thinking about it. Blood rushed to his cheeks and his face felt like it was on fire. “I know how _busy_ you’ve been lately and you weren’t able to do anything about it, so I thought I’d do it myself because _somebody had to_.”

Erak looked like he was going to explode with rage. His face reached shades of red Castiel had never seen on a human being before. “Yeh shouldn’ be stickin’ yer nose where it don’ belong!” he bellowed. “This is _my_ country! We live by our own rules an’ traditions. Yeh ain’ got a say in it! Yer here ‘cause somethin’ happened in yer own country and that’s awful and I want it fixed as much as you do, but yeh keep yer fuckin’ nose out o’ this, yeh hear? It ain’ none o’ yer business.”

Castiel felt like he had swallowed a dragon. His blood was on fire and he was breathing out steam. He took a few large steps forward until he could slam his hands on the desk right next to Erak’s. It was not as loud or impressive as it was when the Oberjarl did it, but the tingling pain it left in his hands grounded him a little. “None of my business?” he repeated furiously. His voice was loud as well. It didn’t reach the same volume of that of a Skandian who had spent the better part of his life on a ship, barking orders loudly so everyone could hear, though. Castiel knew he was probably less than impressive but he didn’t care. He couldn’t remain silent about this any longer.

“You’re keeping an Araluan citizen here against his will! He just got flogged without a valid reason! I saw all of it.” He was panting, breathing hard. His and Erak’s face were mere inches apart and he could smell the Skandian’s rotten breath. “ _You_ are the one who has no right. That boy that you call a slave, that you treat like some kind of animal – he’s one of my people. He should be a free man. Especially considering the treaty between our countries. You didn’t only violate it with those raids, you took our people and enslaved them! How dare you say this is none of my business?”

Erak’s expression morphed into one of shock but it didn’t soften. He still looked furious. “What the Hell are yeh talkin’ ‘bout?” he growled. “There ain’ no Araluan slaves here ‘nymore. They all left after the Battle fer Hallasholm.”

“Apparently, they didn’t,” Castiel countered. He stood his ground, didn’t move away, even if the stench on Erak’s breath made him a little nauseous. “There’s this slave – at least one, I don’t know if there are any others – who is from Araluen. He told me so himself.”

Erak seemed hesitant to believe him. “Outside?” he asked. Castiel nodded.

“Outside,” he confirmed. “In the yard. He’s still quite young. Looks relatively healthy.” His mind drifted to how some of the other slaves had looked – severely underfed, even more so than Dean, dragging their feet and barely able to stand. Next to them, even Dean hadn’t looked so bad.

“Yer sure he’s from Araluen?” Erak questioned. Castiel bit his tongue to stifle his immediate annoyed answer and moved back a little. He was getting really fed up with everyone asking him if he was _absolutely sure?_ His senses didn’t betray him. “I mean, he could be jus’ sayin’ that, yeh know?”

“Why would he lie about that?” Castiel demanded angrily.

Erak shrugged one shoulder awkwardly, irritated. “Yer from Araluen, too. Maybe he thought yeh’d get angry an’ try an’ talk ter me ‘bout lettin’ him go. Which, he was right.”

“He speaks the language,” Castiel argued. “Without accent. He’s a native. I’m sure of it. So yes, of course I’m asking you to let him go. Having him here as a slave goes against everything our treaty stands for.”

Erak clicked his tongue and shook his head in disapproval. “I agree, it’s weird and it shouldn’t’ve happened. I’ll try an’ figure out how it happened an’ why. But I ain’ lettin’ ‘im go.”

Castiel exploded. If spontaneous combustion had been a real thing, it would have happened to him right then and there. “What do you mean, ‘you’re not letting him go’?!” he yelled, raking his arms over the table in his ire. A bottle of ink, along with some other writing utensils, tipped over the edge and shattered as it hit the ground, splattering black drops all over the floor and the side of the desk. Erak didn’t even seem to notice the mess. He was right up there in Castiel’s space, even with the desk separating them.

“’Cause if I let ‘im go right now, with no explanation, no nothin’, the other slaves’re goin’ ter notice. They’re goin’ ter want that too, or worse; they’re goin’ ter think that they can, too. I’d have an uprisin’ on me hands if I did. So no, I ain’ goin’ ter let him go.” He points at the door. “An’ that’s the end o’ it. Now get out me office.”

Castiel just stood there, staring at the Oberjarl exasperated and lost for words. “You can’t just let this happen-” he started to object. Erak shut him up by raising his hand.

“I won’. I’ll figure out what happened an’ I’ll see what I can do then.”

Castiel sighed, defeated. “At least make sure he’s treated better.”

Erak nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Castiel turned around and exited the room. He didn’t quite know how to feel; he felt defeated, angered, and for the first time in a long time, he felt helpless. There was nothing he could do to change the situation and it was a terrible feeling.

He shuffled back to their room, his and Charlie’s earlier fight completely forgotten. She was still there when he walked through the door, sat at the desk with a quill in her hand. The look she sent him when he entered quickly morphs from one of irritation to one of concerned surprise when she saw his face. Castiel didn’t know what he looked like, but if his expression resembled how he feels in any way, it couldn’t be very good.

“What’s going on?” Charlie asked. It was not accusing or prejudiced, just genuinely curious and a little concerned. Castiel felt a wave of gratitude wash over him for having her as a friend. She might be a pain in the ass sometimes, but her heart was in the right place, even if they did disagree a lot.

Castiel sank down in one of the other chairs. He felt drained, suddenly. Exhausted. He couldn’t even muster up enough energy to put his head in his hands. So instead, he just sat there and stared at the smooth surface of the table – pine wood, not an expensive, exotic type. “There’s this one slave…” he mumbled. Even his voice was tired all of a sudden. It took a huge amount of energy to speak.

Charlie raised her eyebrows. “You mean the one you’ve been ogling for the past, like, two weeks?”

Castiel glared at her, but there was no heat behind it. “I haven’t been _ogling_ him,” he denied. Charlie pursed her lips.

“Of course you haven’t,” she mused. Castiel decided to ignore her. He was too tired to react to her teasing.

“He’s from Araluen,” he said. He didn’t sugar-coat it; it didn’t even occur to him that maybe he should. All the anger he had carried inside of himself for the past week leaked out of him, leaving only sheer fatigue.

Charlie froze in her chair, quill tickling the skin of her cheek. The playful side of her expression slid away to reveal shock and confusion. “What?” she asked. Castiel knew she had heard him perfectly clear.

So he just nodded and watched as the news sank in. He could see the same angered defiance in her eyes as he had when he first met her, when King Duncan told her about the raids. “You’re serious?” she asked. Castiel nodded again in confirmation.

“And Erak knows about this?!”

Castiel nodded, then shook his head. “He does now. I don’t think he did before I told him.”

“What did he say?” Charlie wanted to know. Castiel shrugged.

“Not much. Just that he’ll look into it but he’s not letting Dean go,” he answered. Charlie’s eyebrows shot up until they almost touched her hairline, though at the same time her face darkened in anger. Honestly, Castiel was impressed with how expressive her face could be.

“So you’re on a first name basis with this slave now, huh?” she asked, adding, “Why is Erak not letting him go?” in the same breath. Castiel decided to ignore the first question.

“Because he’s a stubborn ass and he has no sympathy for anyone whatsoever.” Charlie shot him a look. Castiel sighed. “Because if he lets Dean go, the other slaves are going to start demanding their freedom as well and Skandians can’t care for themselves so they desperately need the slavery system.”

Charlie sent him a disapproving glare but didn’t say anything. “This is against everything Araluen stands for,” she mumbled. “We need to get to the bottom of this. I’m starting to get the feeling there’s more going on than just a rogue Skirl.”

Castiel looked at her long and hard, nodding. He knew what she was hinting at, he had the same feeling in his lower belly for a while now. “So do I. I just can’t put my finger on it,” he grumbled.

“Could be a lot of things.” Charlie’s voice was soft and thoughtful. “Or it could be nothing. We can’t make any accusations based on a hunch. We need something concrete.”

Castiel nodded. “Let’s wait until that Svengal gets back from his little ‘trip’ and see what he has to say.”

 

****

 

Svengal wasn’t expected to return for a while still, though. Castiel was reminded of that fact by Erak when he cornered the Oberjarl in the Great Hall later that evening. Erak was still a little grumpy, his words harsh and loud (more so than usual), so Castiel bit his tongue and backed off when Erak told him to. He had caused enough trouble for today and even though Charlie tended to exaggerate a bit in her rules and policies, she had been right about him taking it too far. He needed to keep his head down for a while, not attract any attention and not object to any Skandian tradition.

So, naturally, the first thing he did was sneak outside, arms laden with warm clothes and bread and dried meat that he had taken from the kitchen, and break into the yard slaves’ barracks.

Well, ‘break in’ is a big word. The door wasn’t locked, and even if it had been, he was fairly certain it would have fallen from its hinges if he’d breathed on it too harshly. The pine wood that the one-story building was made of was rotting and coming apart at the seams. Castiel was surprised it was still standing, especially with the wind blowing ruthlessly across the land.

The second thing that surprised him was the state in which he found the slaves. It was cold in there, barely any warmer than outside in the wind and snow. Never in a million years would Castiel be able to fall asleep in here. He would be shaking too hard to even try. Yet here the slaves were, every one of them, sleeping and snoring the night away on their wafer-thin mattresses as if they were lying in a king-sized bed in a nice and warm royal chamber.

They were situated on either side of the aisle – which was so narrow he couldn’t put his two feet next to each other without stepping on a limb here and there – sprawled out across the floor with blankets draped over them. Some of them had half a dozen, some barely had one. Not for the first time, Castiel wondered how bad their living conditions really were.

It was dark in the sleeping quarters, too, so excuse him if he didn’t see the arm lying across the aisle before he stepped on it. He stumbles forward as soon as he felt the limb under his foot, regaining his balance quickly and whispering apologies under his breath. The waterfall of hushed ‘I’m sorry’s leaving his mouth dried out when he noticed that the slave hadn’t even woken up. He just snored loudly and turned around, burying himself deeper under his blankets. Castiel stared at him, confused, for a few moments but then shrugged it off. It was probably the exhaustion. He had seen the slaves at work, he would be dead tired too if he had to do chores like theirs every day. Especially in this weather.

Next time he hit a limb it was a stray foot. This time, the owner did wake up. He grumbled a little and groaned as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and Castiel quietly darted forward a few paces, hoping that the darkness would hide his silhouette enough to be invisible to the sleepy eye. Lucky for him, the slave either didn’t have the energy to look around or simply didn’t care, because he tugged the blankets up to his chin and closed his eyes without so much as glancing around. Castiel breathed out a quiet sigh of relief.

Dean’s bed – if you could even call it that – was almost at the very back of the barracks. In the bad light, he looked even worse than he did during the day. His skin seemed grey and his features bony. He didn’t rouse when the floorboard creaked under Castiel’s foot; nor when the Ranger gently lay the food, which he had wrapped in a piece of chequered cloth like a total cliché, on an unoccupied part of the floor, either.

Dean only stirred when Castiel put a hand on his shoulder and shook him gently. Even the fabric of the blankets felt chilly under his touch from the cold air streaming in through the cracks in the wall. Dean’s eyes opened to narrow slits as he tried to see in the darkness, not quite aware of what woke him up yet. It took him a minute to make out the dark shape next to him that was Castiel, but when he did, he flinched back sharply. The look on his face was one of surprise rather than actual fear, however, so Castiel was relatively content.

“Hey,” he whispered, gesturing at the wrapped-up bundle next to him, “I brought food.”

Dean looked at him as if he had grown a second head but Castiel spotted the small and tentative smile on his face. “What are you doing here?” he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Castiel shrugged, though he doubted that Dean could actually see the movement.

“I um…” He rubbed the skin at the back of his neck awkwardly. The ‘I wanted to make sure you’re okay’ was stuck at the back of his throat and he couldn’t seem to get the words out of his mouth. “Something told me you’d be up for a late-night cheer-up meal,” he said instead.

Dean didn’t even seem to notice the food. Instead, the smile slipped from his face and he glanced down the aisle further to the back anxiously. Castiel frowned. “No one woke up,” he assured the slave. Dean shook his head and put a finger on his lips.

“The Committee is just in the other room,” he whispered, pointing to the back wall of the barracks. And indeed, only now Castiel saw a faint stripe of flickering light emerging from under what he assumed to be a closed door. “If- if they hear you, we’ll both be in big trouble, Sir.”

Castiel considered this for a moment, but waved it away soon. He was a Ranger, he didn’t get caught. Especially not by a bunch of slaves that were chilled to the bone. He wouldn’t let himself be scared away that easily. He handed Dean the clothes instead – another jumper and a spare cloak, this time. Dean looked at them like they were going to eat him alive rather than keep him warm. “Put them on,” Castiel said, “we’re going outside.”

Dean looked like he wanted to object but he decided against it and pulled the sweater over his head. The cloak gave him a harder time and Castiel had to help him tie the knot. “What are we going to do outside, Sir?” he asked.

Castiel pursed his lips, shrugging lightly. “Talk, I guess,” he answered. “Eat. Maybe find a place that’s warmer than this shack.”

Dean looked doubtful but he followed Castiel outside anyway. He was much more agile in manoeuvring his way through the sleeping bodies than Castiel was. The Ranger stubbed his toes against a few limbs here and there.

Once they were standing outside in the snow, Castiel glanced around, feeling a little lost. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. Luckily, Dean knew his way around here. He looked uncertain as he took a few steps away from Castiel, in the direction of the yard. “The stables are quite warm,” he suggested, arms crossed in front of his chest to keep as much warmth as possible.

Castiel felt a little tentative about it, but he followed Dean through the thick layer of snow to the stables. The hinges creaked sharply when he pushed the door open and Dean flinched, glancing around the yard to check if anyone heard them.

“Everyone’s asleep,” Castiel reassured him. “Don’t worry, they won’t notice us.”

Except Grace, of course. The pony came to them as soon as the door fell shut, bumping her nose against Castiel’s shoulder. He smiled as he took her head in his hands and rubbed the bridge of her nose gently. “Hey, girl,” he whispered. “Did you miss me?”

The mischievous glint in her eyes made him rolls his eyes. He guided her backwards a few steps so Dean had enough space to enter as well. The boy’s eyes were just as wide and gleeful as they had been the first time he had seen Grace. Stepping forward carefully, he placed a hand on her neck and stroked the skin there softly. Grace whinnied in delight.

They ended up sprawled out in a heap of hay with Grace lying behind them, their backs pressed against her warm side. She was like a furnace. Castiel didn’t think he had ever been more comfortable. He put the cloth-bundled food down in between them, untied the knot that kept the cloth together and let the edges flutter down onto the floor. They revealed the freshly baked bread and the slices of meat he had taken from the kitchen. It was fresh, the small group of Skandians that had gone into the forest early that morning had returned in the late afternoon with several squirrels and rabbits dangling from their belts. It wasn’t a large meal, not like the buck or aurochs they sometimes carry, but the taste of it had been a nice change to the usual array of fish or the occasional duck.

Dean glanced down at the food, his eyes wide with wonder. “You brought that for me?” he asked, voice hesitant but hopeful. The ‘Sir’ that followed was like an afterthought but it still left a certain tension in the air around them. Castiel broke off a piece of bread and handed it to Dean. That should be enough of an answer.

“Don’t call me ‘Sir’,” he said, popping a slice of meat in his own mouth. “It’s Castiel.”

Dean took the bread and nibbled on its crust. It was quite adorable. Castiel forced himself to look away.

“Alright,” the slave nodded, biting his lower lip as if he was nervous. “Castiel.”

His name sounded strange and new, coming off Dean’s tongue, but it had a pleasant ring to it. Castiel smiled.

“Dean,” he replied, offering a slice of meat to the boy. He took it carefully and draped it over the bread, taking a large bite after he muttered a small ‘Thank you’.

They sat in silence after that, sharing the food between the two of them. Grace got the occasional piece of bread as well. Castiel held back from eating too much; he’d had three healthy meals today so he didn’t really need to eat now. Dean, on the other hand, looked small and slim in the oversized sweater he was wearing and like he desperately needed a good meal. So Castiel let him have most of the food, only took a little bit and took his time eating that. He tried to be subtle about it but Dean didn’t seem to notice anyway, too absorbed in the food and the warmth Grace was emitting.

The silence between them was mostly amicable, but Castiel could still sense some tension in it. He guessed it was partially because Dean was always quite tense. Still, he couldn’t help himself from fidgeting a little.

“I um…” he started, scraping his throat when his voice came out croaking. Dean looked at him, some breadcrumbs clinging to his lower lip. Castiel tried not to stare. “I’m sorry,” he said. Dean looked confused so Castiel elaborates. “About this afternoon. About what I caused that member of the Committee to do to you.”

Dean’s mouth opened but no sound came out so he closed it again. He put the half-eaten piece of bread in his hand back onto the chequered cloth. “It’s okay,” he whispered eventually, wiping his hands on his worn-out trousers. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Castiel gaped at him. The Committee member may not have used his name, but there was no doubt about why he did what he did. Dean had been slacking in his work – in the other slave’s eyes, at least – and it had been Castiel who had kept Dean from his work from time to time. “Yes, it was,” he therefore argued, sitting up straighter from where he had been lounging against Grace. She looked up at the sudden movement, ears moving as if she was listening in on their conversation – which, knowing Grace, she probably was. “He didn’t say it in so many words but I’m not stupid. I know what happened. I’m sorry.”

He tried to put as much emotion in his voice as possible. He wanted Dean to know he was an ally, not an enemy. It seemed to work, for Dean looked away and started playing with a loose thread on his jumper. “It really wasn’t your fault,” he said softly, voice small, so small. He pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around his legs. “Please don’t think that. It, um- it’s happened before. And it will happen again. You had nothing to do with it.”

Castiel wanted to argue but the tone of Dean’s voice made him swallow back the words. Dean sounded so small, so scared and broken, that he couldn’t bring himself to stress the boy out even more. So he nodded, instead, and put what he hoped was a comforting hand on Dean’s knee, squeezing gently.

“I still wish it hadn’t happened,” he whispered. Dean nodded.

“Yeah, me too.”

He gathered himself mere moments later, scraping his throat and stretching out his legs. The last piece of bread disappeared into his mouth. “It could have been worse, anyway,” he chuckled humourlessly, plucking at the loose thread aggressively.

“There’s- there’s this punishment that they give, sometimes, when- when we misbehave particularly bad. It’s, um. There are these wells, on the far side of the building. And they- especially in winter, they freeze over and the- the water can’t be used. So they invented these- these pedals that go just above the water surface. It’s this construction where you have to twist this handle and the pedals start moving and keep the water from- from freezing. And it’s- it’s Hell. It is. You- the pedals splash the water up and you just get _soaked_ … and the water may not be literally frozen but it- it’s freezing. And you have to stand there, all day, without moving, and you start to go numb and like you’ll never be warm again. I didn’t think I’d ever be warm again… And it only gets worse when you’re done for the day. Because then the water on your clothes freezes and even your sweat freezes and there’s nowhere to go to get warm.”

He shuddered just at the memory of it, despite the warmth Grace’s body was radiating. The thread on his jumper ripped and left a small hole in the fabric. He let it flutter to the ground and started fiddling with his own hands instead. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, what- what happened today, that… that wasn’t really that bad. You know, compared to what could have happened. I’d rather have my back stinging a little than being so… so _cold_.”

His hands were shaking where they clutched the fabric of his trousers. Castiel reached out, carefully and tentatively, and wrapped his own hands around Dean’s. The boy clutched back subconsciously and leans forward into the touch. The way he was trembling reminded Castiel of the state he had been in just after the flogging and he held on a little tighter.

“I’d rather have neither of those things happen to you,” he said, rubbing his thumb against the back of Dean’s hand. The boy seemed to suddenly pull back from his thoughts and realize where he was. He carefully withdrew his hands and huddled in on himself.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- to whine, or anything-” Castiel shushed him, but didn’t move in closer. Dean needed his space right now.

“It’s okay,” he said, “you can tell me. I’m on your side, remember?”

Dean blushed but shuffled a little closer. “I haven’t even thanked you,” he whispered hoarsely. Castiel tilted his head questioningly and he elaborated. “For what you did, this afternoon. Standing up for me. You didn’t have to do that. I mean, I’m- I’m glad you did. I am. But you didn’t have to.”

“I’m glad I did, too,” Castiel answered. “I mean, I didn’t become a Ranger just for kicks. I wanted to protect my people. Still do.”

Dean sent him a weak smile. “I used to be afraid of Rangers,” he admitted. His voice came out quiet, like he was unsure he should tell an actual Ranger this. Castiel thought it was kind of funny how the people thought of him and his, though it could be annoying at times. “My dad always told me these stories about Rangers, to scare me into being good, you know? Like, ‘If you don’t listen, the Rangers will come in the night and take you from your bed’. He told me that Rangers were actually these evil creatures that had carved themselves out of the shadows of the forest. That they’re a species of demons. They’re ruthless, and just the look of them is enough to kill you. And as if that’s not enough, they also carry weapons. A bow and quiver, with twelve arrows in it.”

Dean glanced at Castiel’s face. The Ranger couldn’t help the amused grin on his features. The stories were ridiculous. He had heard his fair share of them in his life and Dean’s version wasn’t even the worst of them. “People say that-”

“That a Ranger carries the lives of twelve men in his quiver,” Castiel mouthed along, grinning. “You know, that is the one part your dad got right.”

Dean didn’t look weirded out, like Castiel had expected, just a bit… admiring, in a way. “I’ve seen you practise. At the edge of the woods, when I was getting wood for the fireplace. I swear I wasn’t, like, following you or anything. I just happened to see.” Castiel smiled reassuringly to show he didn’t mind.

“I thought I saw someone, this one time,” he recalled. “So that was you.”

Dean nodded shyly. “You’re good. You didn’t miss a single target. And you were so _fast_. How do you even- I didn’t think that was, you know, physically possible.”

Castiel smirked. “It isn’t. But I’m a demonic creature that carved myself out of the forest’s shadows, so the rules of physics don’t apply to me.”

Dean snorted and laughed softly, looking down at his lap. The moon reflected on his face and Castiel could very clearly see the freckles covering the skin over his nose and cheekbones. They were pale, not very visible, but Castiel could imagine how bright they would turn if Dean got enough sun. “Right,” the boy scoffed. “I mean it though. What- what you can do, that’s… it’s really amazing.”

Castiel’s smirk softened. “Thank you. Do you want to know the real secret?” he asked, continuing as Dean nodded. “It’s practice. Lots and lots of practice.”

Dean smiled back. “You’re not like the stories,” he muttered. There was a tone of wonder in his voice and Castiel had to repress a grin. “It’s- it’s kind of weird. I mean, my dad told me these stories and it’s like- his word was sacred, you know? He was my dad, he was so- so wise. He knew so much, about so many things. And if he told me a story, then… then that was always true. Always. No exceptions. I guess, finding out that he wasn’t always right, it’s kind of like the world as I knew it is being turned upside down, you know?”

“Yeah, that’s the thing about stories; that’s all they are. Just stories. There’s always a core of truth to them, but mostly they’re glamorized, romanticized versions of the real thing.”

Dean chuckled. “I didn’t find your story version to be very romantic.”

Castiel barked out a laugh. “Yeah, I guess you’re right about that.”

“I like you better than your story version,” Dean admitted softly. He was staring ahead as he said it, not looking at Castiel, but the Ranger could see on his face that he meant it. “You’re not like I expected you to be.”

Castiel stretched out comfortably and glanced over at the boy next to him. He didn’t invade Dean’s space, but they were close, and Castiel thought that was exactly what Dean needed; proximity but no touching.

Dean didn’t seem to be expecting an answer. He awkwardly turned around to pet Grace, which she highly appreciated. Castiel smiled at the sight. “I’m glad you like me better than a shadow demon,” he teased, because he couldn’t help himself, and he felt like this was something he could say to Dean. Humour and teasing seemed to make him more comfortable than gentle, heartfelt words. “Really, that’s- that’s great. I’m flattered.”

Dean laughed, looking away from Grace to meet Castiel’s eyes. “Never underestimate shadow demons. They’re actually pretty cool.”

Castiel snorted. “Right. I bet you were so scared of me when you were younger.”

Dean blushed but his smile didn’t fade. “Not of you in particular,” he retorted, but it was a weak attempt at a comeback and they both knew it. Castiel just grinned knowingly and lay back in the heap of hay, watching Dean’s hand dance across the expanse of Grace’s back. She was genuinely enjoying his touch, while she usually didn’t take to strangers quickly. She was quite wary of them, actually. Castiel guessed that this was a good sign.

The moment was broken after a while – Castiel didn’t know how long they’d been there, but the moon had set in the meantime – when Dean turned away and pushed himself up on his feet, legs sore from sitting for such a long time. He groaned softly as he stood up.

“I should probably get back now,” he said, gesturing in the general direction of the yard slaves’ barracks. “It’s late, and I’m sure you have important work to do tomorrow. Diplomatic things and stuff.” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly and Castiel suppressed a smile at how adorable he looked.

“Yeah, you’re right. We should get some sleep or we’ll be absolute wrecks tomorrow.” He didn’t mention the fact that he had absolutely nothing to do until that Svengal guy returned from his ‘trip’. Dean had work to do in the morning and considering today’s events, he was going to have to work hard. Even harder than usual.

But then Dean started untying the knot in the cloak and let it drop from his shoulders and Castiel was ready to object, to say that he’d brought those clothes for Dean to keep. The boy already knew what he was going to say, however, and handed the cloak back. “I think you should keep it. If I take it back into the sleeping quarters, it’ll be stolen by another slave before the crack of dawn. It’s harsh, in there. Everyone wants to get as much warmth as they can get.”

Castiel nodded in understanding. “I’ll bring it again next time,” he promised. He also made a mental note to bring some warm food then, too. That would certainly be a nice change to Dean’s usual range of food.

Dean’s lips curved up into a smile. “Yeah. Next time. I’d like that.”

“Good,” Castiel said. “Do keep the sweater. Your shirt was all torn up today.”

Dean couldn’t really object to that so he agreed, albeit tentatively. With a pat on Grace’s neck, he started to walk towards the stables’ door, shooting a last glance at Castiel as he did so.

“So, I’ll see you next time, then?” he asked, shyly. Unsurely. Castiel nodded.

“Yes. Next time.”

Dean smiled, brightly and brilliantly. “Alright. Until then. Goodbye, Castiel.”

He exited the stables before Castiel could say anything back. His “Goodbye, Dean” was lost in the wind but that didn’t subdue the feeling of contentment and happiness in his belly.

 

****

 

Something changed between them from then on. It was nothing big, just some minor subtleties that, to them, made all the difference in the world. They watched out for each other.

There wasn’t much they could actually _do_ , but it was in the little things that created some sense of safety for them. It was in the way Castiel watched Dean like a hawk whenever they were in the yard at the same time. In the way Dean watched him go as he took off into the forest for some practice, and the way Dean was still there waiting for him, looking out for him, when he returned. It was in the small touches they shared when they crossed paths, the unseen contact and the lingering gazes. It was the soft, lovely feeling Castiel got in his stomach whenever Dean smiled at him, the emotion the boy’s eyes radiated where they’d been dull and lifeless when they had first met.

This became Castiel’s new routine, in lieu of his old one. That one was already broken, anyway. He and Charlie didn’t hang out together as much anymore. She had gotten more involved in Skandia’s politics, giving the Oberjarl hints and tips on his organisation and helping him with his administration. It was all over the place – calculus wasn’t something the Skandians excelled in. Charlie was a star at this, though. Beside her diplomatic skills, she was also shrewd; she could have easily gone to clerk’s school but, as she told Castiel, that was too boring. She craved adventure, a quest. Something to accomplish. 

So as she spent more of her time in the Oberjarl’s office, almost effortlessly working her way up to being his secretary, Castiel spent more time practising and mapping out the area. He had gotten a quite accurate map of the biggest part of Hallasholm drawn out now. Most of it he knew by heart from wandering the route so many times. And if his shot could get any more accurate, it would. The number of arrows he shot in a day was insane. He had even woken up with an ache in his shoulders and back one morning. That hadn’t happened in years.

The rest of his spare time he spent hanging around the yard like some creep and keeping an eye on Dean. Making sure nothing happened to him, he tells himself. It was true, mostly. But there was an underlying reason for it as well, one he was not yet ready to put a name to.

His nightly routine – yes, he had that too – consisted of either sleeping, most nights (Dean needed his sleep, he had a lot of hard work to do every day) or sneaking into the slaves’ quarters to retrieve Dean.

The stables became their secret little hideout. Dean made sure to place an extra heap of fresh hay in Grace’s stable every day and she, as the good girls she could be when she wanted to, stayed away from it and left it for them. And Castiel brought whatever he could get. The cloak, as usual, and what stray food from the kitchen he could get his hands on. He managed to find a pot with still-hot soup this one time. It was lukewarm by the time Dean ate it, but he seemed to enjoy it nonetheless, tucking into it like it was the best meal he has ever had.

He was quiet. That was one thing Castiel noticed about him, other than how his skin looked like it was glowing when the moonlight shone on it and that his eyes were greener than the healthiest, most luscious grass. He didn’t say much, he was hesitant to share things from his personal life. The life he’d had before he’d become a prisoner in the icebound land. And he was not a star at small talk – really, who would be if they lived the life he did? – so he generally didn’t say a lot. Which left Castiel to fill the silences.

And, thing is, Castiel had never been a star at small talk either. He always preferred silence to hollow words with no real meaning behind them. But somehow, whenever he was around Dean, he just… _cracked._ And Dean was a great listener, too. He always had his full attention on Castiel when he talked, even leaned forward a little as to not miss a single word. He never interrupted, he chuckled or gasped at the right moments and listened like his life depended on it, with every fibre of his being. Most of the time, they would be tucked up in the hay in a corner of Grace’s stable, with the pony lying nearby to provide them with warmth, several feet apart but somehow intimately close at the same time. Dean would have his knees tucked up under his chin, his arms wrapped around his legs and cheek resting atop of them, head cocked to the side as he listened to Castiel ramble into the silence of the night.

It was always dark there and Castiel could never see much, but if the sky was clear and the moon was out, it illuminated Dean’s features so prettily it left Castiel entranced. His freckles stood out against his pale skin and Castiel would count them if he wasn’t afraid Dean would catch him staring.

They talked about everything and nothing, from philosophical theories to embarrassing stories. Dean’s favourite thing to listen to, however, were the stories Castiel told him about Araluen. About what his life as a Ranger looks like.

Castiel told him the story of when he’d first met Grace. She was bred especially to be a Ranger’s horse, and there were many traits and quirks about those that made them so special. Not just their incredible stamina and speed, or their high intelligence. It was in the details. In the small things that made them stand out from other horses. They had a password, for example. It was like a code, one that had to be whispered in the horse’s ear before mounting it. It was to make sure they didn’t get stolen. But of course, Castiel’s mentor hadn’t mentioned that little twist to him. So when he’d tried to mount Grace, he was ejected face-first off her back with a clever, complex buck and had landed sprawled out in the dirt.

Or the pranks he’d tried to pull on his mentor, but that had always failed miserably, even after he had traded his bronze oakleaf (the sign of an apprentice) to a silver one, that of a full-fledged Ranger. The pranks had started simple, like salt in his coffee, and had eventually escalated up to trying to ambush him on their way to the annual Gathering. Every single time, his mentor had caught him; sometimes in the act, and sometimes he had just _known_ , and Castiel had made a complete fool of himself. His mentor got back at him, and when the time came that Castiel didn’t fall for the pranks anymore, when the time came that he just _knew_ , too, his – by then former – mentor just smiled proudly at him and they both stopped.

Dean laughed out loud when Castiel told him stories like these, doubling over with the force of it. The sound that came out of his mouth was like music to Castiel’s ears and his smile lit up his face so much that for a moment, he looked healthy and problem-free.

Castiel wished he could always be like that.


	5. Heaven knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me a story,” Dean whispered into the space between them one night.

Another week passed, and still no sign of Svengal. Castiel tried to not be too obvious and not hang around the yard all the time, so he went into town. Visited the market, talked to the people. Or, he tried to. Sure, the stalls on the market sold their products to him, and they did answer whenever he asked them a question, but any and of his attempts to start a conversation were ignored. The Skandians passed them off with indecipherable grunts or just angry, dismissive glares. It was strange, but not alarmingly weird. Skandians probably weren’t too keen on foreigners in their country.

He overheard them talking, sometimes. He used to have to strain to hear and understand the Skandian dialect – the Skandian language was essentially the same as the Araluan one, but the Skandians had a very thick accent and a slightly different dialect.

“… this whole fuckin’ pact was a huge mistake. The guy’s out o’ his freakin’ mind!”

“’S bad ‘nough that he banned us from goin’ ter Araluen, but e’er since he got up there, I ain’ sellin’ me stuff ‘nymore.”

They always snapped their mouths shut when they spotted Castiel, glared at him while they pretended they hadn’t been talking. So he only heard snippets of their conversations here and there, could only guess what – or who – they talked about. It wasn’t that hard a guess, though. He just genuinely wondered why these people had such a dislike for the Oberjarl. Granted, Erak was not someone he himself would like to serve as a king, but that was solely because he had grown up with a different culture and sense of morality.

Erak was, especially for Skandian standards, a good man. He was a great leader, the country had landed many alliances and trade agreements. The trade was going well, the economy was doing even better and no one in the city lived in poverty or suffered hunger. And for those who did have little to spend, the Oberjarl had set up weekly meals in the Great Hall, and part of the people’s taxes was put aside for community buildings and instances which everyone could make use of.

He and Castiel might disagree on certain subjects but out of all things Erak was, a bad leader wasn’t one of them. So the apparent disagreement of the people on his statement left him puzzled. He tried not to dwell on it for too long, just gathered the rope and glue he’d come here for and payed the owner of the stand. Completely ignoring their glares, he shot them a smile and turned away. The weight of their words in his mind didn’t sit right.

He tried to brush it off. It was impossible to meet the demands of every single citizen in the country, so some people were bound to have complaints. Still, the amount of people he heard griping and the things they criticized left a sour taste in his mouth and the ringing of alarm bells in the back of his head. It was this nagging feeling he couldn’t figure out, like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

For now, he pushed it back into a far corner of his mind and made his way back to the Great Hall and to Charlie. She was waiting for him in their room, sprawled out on the sheets of her bed with an arrow in her hand. Her fingers gently brushed through the feathers on the back and across the streamlined wooden shaft. The steel arrowhead gleamed in the bleak light of the room.

“This is real craftsmanship,” she said when he comes in. He raised his eyebrows as he put his purchases down on the table.

“How so?” he questioned. Charlie pointed at the feathers.

“The feathers are aligned perfectly, for minimum resistance. They used owl feathers, too, do you know what that means?”

“It means an owl was killed for that quiver of arrows,” he deadpanned. He grinned when Charlie shot him an annoyed look. “It _also_ means,” he continued, “that those arrows make their flight soundlessly, just like the owl the feathers came from.”

“Exactly. And the edges of the head are hardened, so impact will be bigger. More fatal. As if it wasn’t already, with the aim you guys have.”

Castiel smirked at the compliment. “Yeah, we like to be absolutely two hundred per cent sure.”

Charlie sat up and tossed him the arrow. He caught it effortlessly. “Who made these? They must have cost quite a lot of money,” she said. Castiel shrugged.

“Not really. I mean, the materials are pretty cheap, though glue does get expensive sometimes. But I just make it myself, then.”

Charlie gaped at him. “You made these yourself?”

“With my own two hands,” Castiel smirked. “It’s not that hard.”

“Yes, it is!” Charlie argued, looking at him sharply with slight disbelief. “I tried to do it myself this one time. It was awful. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t get the feathers right, or the head fell off, and I always got glue everywhere.” She pouts.

“I can teach you,” Castiel offered easily. It was really not that hard. The trick was technique (which you figure out through watching others), a little practice, and patience. Lots and lots of patience.

“Really?” Charlie asked. “I’m terrible. It would take you ages.”

“I know I haven’t really proved it lately, but I can be very patient,” he countered. Charlie looked doubtful and he couldn’t blame her for that. He hadn’t been acting like it lately. “I’m a Ranger. I’m willing to give it a shot.”

Charlie shrugged and sat up. “I don’t know. I’ve tried archery before and it hasn’t really worked out for me,” she chuckled. “It’s not really my thing. But I’d love to get some knife practice in sometime, if you’d be up for it. I’m getting a little rusty.”

She moved a plication in her dress to reveal a sheath hidden behind the fabric. A single knife was tucked away in and Castiel grinned as his hand unconsciously brushed over the hafts of his own knives.

“Absolutely, I’m up for that. Let’s go.”

Charlie was smiling as she gathered her stuff and swung her cloak across her shoulders. It was a genuine one, not like the one she wore in meetings and often in everyday life. Castiel had known her for long enough, been around her so many hours in the past almost two months, he could tell the difference between her real moods and her staged ones by the small details, like the crinkles by her eyes when she smiled or the fire behind her eyes when she was trying to stay calm and collected.

She grabbed him by the arm and practically dragged him out of the room when he didn’t move fast enough for her liking. It made him smile. Over the past two months, Charlie had become one of his closest friends – _the_ closest even, maybe – despite their disagreements and temper tantrums. It was kind of sad, really, how quickly she’d managed to get all the way on top of his list in such a short period of time. It really put in perspective just how lonely his life had been. It had never bothered him before, but as of late, he’d started thinking about it a lot more. About what it would be like to have someone waiting for him when he came home.

Strangely enough, the first thing he thought of when his mind went there was green eyes and cheekbones dusted with freckles.

He had put sort of a prohibition on it, because for a Ranger, having someone close to you was not only very hard because of the impossible hours but also a liability. Something the enemy could use to manipulate you. It was one of the reasons most Rangers remained single for the better part of their lives, only settling down after retirement.

Erak intercepted them in the hallway, proclaiming he needed Charlie to handle some paperwork for him. She sighed, but turned around to face Castiel, mouthing “His bookkeeping sucks” before striding along after Erak’s already disappearing form.

“We’ll get some practice in this evening,” Castiel shouted after her. She gave him a thumbs-up without turning around.

Making a short trip back to their room, Castiel figured he might as well get something useful done. He gathered the supplies he needed and made his way outside the Great Hall.

It was a nice day. For Skandian standards, that is. It was fucking freezing outside, so cold it made Castiel’s lips chapped and his skin itch, but there were no clouds in the sky and the sun was shining brightly. The sunlight made the snow seem impossibly whiter and it was starting to hurt his eyes. He had to squint to see through the blinding brightness and having his eyes narrowed like that made them tear up with irritation.

There was a small part of him that didn’t want to go outside. The lustre obstructed his vision and it gave him a headache. And the cold made him long for the gentle winters back home, with mild temperatures and minor snowfall.

He went outside, anyway. He told himself it was because Charlie dragged him out and not because he couldn’t stay away.

The lack of snowfall today was a nice change to the otherwise invariable weather and Castiel took the opportunity to sit outside, against the wall of the Great Hall for some protection against the wind, with his supplies sprawled out in his lap. There was a small pile of firewood resting there, freshly cut this morning so the smell of pine was still heavy in the air and there was no snow covering it.

Charlie talking about his arrows had made him more aware of how he’d brought only one full quiver, which equalled twelve arrows, and during practice, several of those had been broken or damaged. And if there was one thing he absolutely hated, it was walking around with a not-properly-filled quiver. So he’d purchased glue on the market and he shot a snowy owl a few days before. It was the only kind of owl he’d spotted in this country so far and while the colour of the feathers contrasted sharply with the dark brown ones on his other arrows, in a scenery as white as this one it didn’t really matter. Now that Charlie had brought it up again, he figured he might well do it now.

Finding usable twigs was the hardest part. He’d spent an entire day searching the forest. Pine wood was actually too soft to use for arrows, but it was the only kind that grew here so it would have to do. The metal heads were harder to find – he would have to do with the ones from his old, broken arrows.

He could easily do this task inside – it would be better, actually. The wind wouldn’t keep blowing away his owl feathers. But Dean was in the yard, dressed in Castiel’s sweater with that well-used axe loosely grasped in his hand. Castiel kept stealing glances at him and sometimes, he caught Dean doing the same thing. He smiled every time he saw Castiel looking, a little twist of his mouth that Castiel could only barely spot through the distance.

It did make him feel things, knowing that Dean noticed and appreciated his presence.

Making arrows was not a complicated task, but it was impossible to do it swiftly and neatly. Castiel spilled glue all over his hands, and a little on the firewood, too, when he was trying to apply the feathers to the far end of an arrow. He cursed out loud and grumbled as he wiped the sticky substance off with a handful of snow.

“Hi,” said a quiet voice, making Castiel look up slightly startled. He’d heard the pair of footsteps crunching the snow underneath their boots, but that sound echoed all over the yard with the number of slaves walking around; Castiel hadn’t noticed they were so close. He looked up into a set of green eyes and freckles. The boy’s voice was no longer timid, hadn’t been for some time, just the usual low volume and soft edges he talks with.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greeted him. Dean was carrying two armfuls of freshly cut firewood, which he dumped onto the stack next to the Ranger. “You managing?”

It was a question he had made a habit of asking every time he ran into Dean outside, ever since he found him looking almost as white as the snow around them and ready to pass out from hunger. Castiel had run to get Dean something to eat and, out of fear of finding Dean half dead in a heap of snow one day, he kept making sure every time.

Dean nodded, neatly stacking the new pieces of wood on the pile. “Yeah, I’m good. The weather’s nice. Ish. And this work keeps me a little warm.”

He walked off before Castiel got the chance to reply, still wary of any prying eyes on the two of them (and the subsequent punishment). Castiel waited patiently, hand still partially covered in glue, until he returned with another load.

“Yeah, it’s practically summer,” he retorted. Dean scuffed and, upon verifying that no one was watching them, shoved Castiel in the shoulder. There was barely any power behind the nudge and even less heat and Castiel smiled as he gently grasped Dean’s wrist, fingers curling around the pale, dry skin. He wanted to pull the boy in, trap his head under his arm and ruffle his hair until it was standing up in all directions or bury his fingers in his sides until he was gasping for breath with laughter. He did none of those things. Instead, he just squeezed Dean’s too-thin wrist and let his hand linger a little longer than necessary after he let go.

Castiel stayed there, seated against the wall of the building with his eyes on Dean until he got so cold he couldn’t feel his fingers, and his ears and nose felt like they were on fire. Dean’s shoulders grew less tense the longer Castiel sat there and he didn’t jump at any and every noise anymore. He looked a little sad when Castiel got up to leave and he rushed to that spot once more with only half the firewood he could carry in his hands. He dropped them onto the stack unceremoniously and opened his mouth to speak.

“I’ll be back tonight,” Castiel promised before he could. Dean smiled and nodded, closing his mouth to let it form a soft smile.

“Okay. See you then.”

Castiel looked back three times before he reached the door to the Great Hall, and while he didn’t see, he knew Dean did the same thing.

 

****

 

“You’ve been watching me,” Dean concluded one night. They were huddled together in the relative warmth of the stables, close but not touching. As much as Dean had warmed to Castiel already, he was not yet ready for any physical contact.

Castiel looked at him sideways. “Yeah. Guess I have. Do you mind that I do that?”

Dean played a little with the empty wooden bowl in his lap. Castiel had brought him a stew, the leftovers of what the kitchen slaves had served them for dinner. He had warmed it up above the fireplace in the kitchen right before he brought it to Dean, but it still had only been lukewarm when he handed it over. Dean hadn’t seemed to mind, though – he had dug into the food happily and gratefully.

“No, I don’t mind,” came his whispered response. “I kind of like it. I like knowing you’re there.”

Castiel smiled. “I kind of like watching you.”

Dean looked away, blushing, and put the bowl down on the floor beside him. “Why are you here?” he asked. Castiel raised his eyebrows, confused.

“What do you mean?” he wondered. Dean shrugged awkwardly.

“Well, I mean, you’re a Ranger. And I don’t- I don’t know exactly what Rangers do, but you’re- you’re out here, in another country. I saw you when you arrived, with soldiers and everything. It doesn’t take a genius to see that something’s going on. Something important. And- and you’ve been here for, what, weeks, now? And I’m- I’m sure you have a lot of important Ranger stuff you need to do and, like, I don’t know but- but you’re here, instead of- of doing those things. You’re spending time with me. With a slave. In the stables. And I just- don’t get me wrong, I like spending time with you, but- I’m just kind of, you know, confused?”

Castiel puckered his lips as he thought of a good answer. “Well, I’m not really allowed to tell you much about why I’m in Skandia,” he said slowly, “But yeah, it- it is important. King Duncan sent me over here to set some things straight. It’s just taking a lot longer than expected. It was supposed to just be a short, diplomatic visit. Nothing exciting, no fights, no battles, but we had to come in person to show how important it actually is. The problem in fact is just a little harder to solve than it seemed.”

“Then why are you wasting your time on me when you could be spending it on this problem? So you can go back home soon?” Dean asked. His voice was little above a whisper and the lack of force behind it caused it to crack.

“Because I like you,” Castiel shrugged. It was the truth, and it was easier to say out loud than he’d thought it would be. “And I like spending time with you. I’m not wasting my time.” He looked over at Dean, who was stubbornly refusing to look his way. “You’re worth it.”

Dean’s blush deepened and he tightened his fingers in the fabric of his sweater. A frown tainted his face and Castiel yearned to reach over and wrap the boy up in his arms. He looked so small and fragile, skin ghastly in the pale moonlight. “I’m really not,” he mumbled. Castiel moved to object, but Dean spoke up before he could. “I’m just a slave, Castiel. That’s all I am. I’m not worth someone’s time, let alone that of a Ranger who is here on an important, diplomatic mission. You’re here to save lives, to- to help people. On the King’s orders himself. I’m not worth your time. I’m not.”

His voice grew smaller and more tearful with every word he uttered and Castiel couldn’t take it anymore. _Fuck it_. He scrambled up off his bum until he was crouching and moved in front of Dean, cupping the boy’s face in both his hands. Dean tensed, his green eyes hesitantly met Castiel’s, and the latter rubbed gentle circles in his skin with his thumbs. “Yes, you are,” he stressed. “You are. You’re not ‘just a slave’, Dean. You’re a human being. You were a free man once. You’re just as important, you have just as many rights as every other person in the world. Don’t you ever forget that.”

“Maybe I was, but I’m not anymore,” Dean said, averting his eyes. He didn’t pull away, though. Castiel shifted and cupped Dean’s cheek. The touch was soft, a mere graze of his fingers against the expanse of Dean’s marble skin. The boy flinched only a little, squeezing his eyes shut for a short moment before he relaxed into the touch.  Their eyes met once more and Castiel tried to put as much emotion in his eyes as he could.

“I promise I will make you a free man again.”

It might be a trick of the moonlight, but Castiel swore he could see tears glistening in Dean’s eyes. “You can’t do that,” he whispered. They were close, so close, breathing each other’s air. Castiel licked his lips and held onto him a little tighter.

“Maybe not. But I didn’t say I’d do it legally,” he replied. Dean frowned, drawing in a confused breath. Castiel could feel the air in between them shift.

“How-” he started, but his voice broke off and he didn’t make another attempt to speak. Castiel shrugged, brushing a stray of Dean’s half-long hair out of his eyes.

“I’ll figure out a way. I was, after all, carved out of the shadows of a forest. I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

His words startled a laugh out of Dean’s mouth, watery through his unshed tears. One of them rolled down his face, soundlessly trailed down his cheek, hanging onto his jawline for a few seconds before it dripped down onto the floor. “Yeah, I guess you are,” he sniffled. “You know, if I didn’t know you personally, I might have believed that.”

Castiel placed a hand over his heart, feigning hurt. “Ouch. That- that actually hurts. I can’t believe you think of me like that.”

Dean shot him a watery smile through tightly pressed lips, looking away. Castiel cupped his cheek again and turned his head back so they were facing each other. “Dean, listen to me. I promise, okay? I promise I will get you out.”

He held the boy’s gaze until he saw something shift in his eyes, saw a thin veil of peace and reassurance drape over them. He nodded and Castiel smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead as he murmured, “I promise” over and over again.

 

****

 

Castiel soon grew into a love-hate relationship with Skandia. In all honesty, he mostly just hated being away from home for such a long time, and since he was away in Skandia, the country mostly got blamed.

It wasn’t really that hard to find reasons to hate it, though. It was just that it was so _different_ from Araluen, in almost anyway. First of all, the weather. Where Araluen had warm summers filled with green forests and fields of bright grass, and mild winters with the occasional period of snowfall but overall not too cold, Skandian had cold summers with the occasional period of snowfall and fucking freezing, completely-covered-in-snow-and-ice winters. Secondly, it was the people. While Araluen commoners and their misunderstanding and unfounded fear of Rangers could be annoying at times, Skandians weren’t afraid of him at all – they were actually rather annoyed by him, or so it seemed, and that was even worse than being feared.

Wow. He never thought he would ever say that being feared was a good thing. Creepy.

The Skandian culture was also something he couldn’t quite seem to get used to. It was all in the details, because for the most part it was just fishermen and artisans, which wasn’t really all that bothersome. It was the trips they went on with their ships, the unjust way they collected goods.

It was the goddamn slaves they dumped every dirty task on. For a population commonly known as barbarian, they were really frightened to get their hands dirty.

There were things he loved about it, too, though. The scent of pine wood and snow that hung in the air in the early morning, for example. It smelled so _pure_. And the variety of colours that the sun painted in the sky every morning when she woke up – not to mention the different colours she cast when she went to sleep, darker shades but still beautiful. He loved the way the snow clung to the branches of the trees, the perfect pawprints he found in the otherwise pristine snow on the ground.

The wildlife was different here, too. There were species roaming the forest that Castiel had only read about or heard of. It was incredible to get to see them with his own eyes; elk with antlers larger than any Castiel had ever seen, herds of aurochs and other oxen that grazed the plains farther up north and that passed through the edges of the forest from time to time. A variety of wild animals lived here that couldn’t be found in Araluen, too; white rabbits, white owls, white ferrets.

He spent hours a day roaming the forest, searching for the different kinds of animals and following them around when he found them. He didn’t hunt them, didn’t try and catch them, just kept a safe distance as he observed them. Especially the aurochs could get quite aggressive if it sensed a possible threat and Castiel did not want to risk a battle with those horns.

It was fascinating to see the animals roaming around the woods. Castiel had grown accustomed to the wildlife that lived in the Araluan forests and it was nice to see different species. It was one of the better parts of this country.

They didn’t come close to the shooting range, though, and that was where Castiel still spent most of his time. Charlie had tagged along today, her slim dagger seated in its sheath, which was fastened to a simple, decorative leather belt hung loosely around her waist. The archery practice field was as good a place as any for some knife practice, too. His weaponry belt was a heavy weight around his waist, the feeling almost foreign after over a month of not wearing it. He was growing a bit lax in some aspects. On the other hand, he hadn’t spent this many hours practising archery in years.

Charlie grinned as she took her stance in front of him, pulling her dagger out of its leather confinement. She held it at chest height, her grip firm and her feet spread apart for balance. “Ready, Ranger?” she taunted him. Castiel grinned back as he took his own weapons in his hands; the short but wide throwing knife and the longer, more narrow Saxe knife. Their balance was perfect as he closed his fists around the grip and let them rests along his sides.

“Always,” he answered, a cocky smile on his face. This was what he was good at, what he’d been training for since he was fifteen. And Charlie might be good, too, but there was no way he was not going to win their spar match.

They turned around each other at first, like every duel starts, keeping about a meter of space in between them as they shuffled through the snow in circles. A certain silence fell over them; not one void of sound, but one filled with concentration, where they drowned out everything but themselves. The crunch of snow under their feet and the caws of seagulls in the distance were lost to the wind and Castiel heard only Charlie’s breathing, the ruffling of her cape in the breeze and the swooshing sound her dagger made when it pieced through the air. He dodged its sharp point easily and almost slipped. Their feet crushed the snow and left a pressed, slippery layer of frost where their Araluen-made boots didn’t have any grip. He was extra careful as he dodged her next experimental strike, landing one himself right after. She, too, avoided it with that air of grace she had about her.

It took a lot of concentration to stay standing and avoid the sharp edges of their blades, but Castiel managed quite well, even if he said so himself. He managed to land a few blows with the blunt end of his knives and avoided getting hit by most of Charlie’s. He was dragging it out, saving energy while he waited until she made a mistake. And eventually, she did.

It was only a split second where her foot lost the grip it had on the ground and she slipped. She wasn’t off-balance for long, recovered almost immediately but in that short moment, she let her guard down, and Castiel struck. A single blow to the ribs with the haft of his throwing knife, a smooth turn around her to avoid her counterstrike, and a kick in the kneecaps later, she was sitting in the snow on her knees with the blade of his Saxe knife mere inches from her neck. They were both panting, breathing in the frozen air hungrily. Their breaths left small clouds in the air that faded as they floated away. Castiel smirked and retracted his knife, slipping it back in its sheath.

Charlie grumbled as he stuck out his hand, but she took and let him pull her to her feet. “You’re good,” she admitted, moving to pick up her dagger from where she’d dropped it.

“You’re getting better,” he replied. Charlie smiled, but it faded almost immediately and she looked down, kicking at a pile of snow that they had created with their twisting and turning.

“I’m starting to feel like this isn’t going to be fixed,” she said softly. Castiel didn’t have to ask what she meant. He tucked his throwing knife back in its sheath as well.

“Yeah, I’m- I’m not sure if Erak is really going to do something about it, even if that Svengal guy knows what’s going on. He doesn’t- it’s normal for them, what happened in Willow Vale. And all the other villages.”

“King Duncan is very sure that Erak will help,” Charlie mused.

“But you’re not,” Castiel guessed. She shrugged.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not- I’ve never worked with him before. I don’t really know him. But King Duncan knows what he’s doing.” Her voice had a note of determination in it. “We’re going to finish this mission. Erak is going to help us. The treaty will remain. It’s all going to work out just fine.”

She sounded like she was trying to convince herself. “Yeah. Of course it will.”

Castiel didn’t believe it either.

 

****

 

“Tell me a story,” Dean whispered into the space between them one night. Castiel glanced over at him, because all he’d been doing during the nights they’d spent together, those few hours they had all to themselves, was telling Dean stories. But tonight was different, somehow. Dean was tired, worn down even more than usual. He had dark bags under his eyes and Castiel felt bad for dragging him out of bed when he needed his sleep so much.

“Alright,” he answered, just as softly as Dean, “what kind of story do you want to hear?”

Dean shrugged the best he could, huddled in his cloak and leaning against the stable wall. “I don’t know. Something about- about Araluen. About your hometown.”

Castiel leaned back and pondered for a moment. “Well, I live in Willow Vale, in Trelleth fief, but my hometown is Redmont.”

Dean sat up a little straighter. “You grew up in Redmont village?”

Redmont was one of Araluen’s larger, more important fiefs. It was big on trade and production and some of Araluen’s best knights were born there.

Castiel shot Dean a small smile. “The castle, actually.”

That startled Dean. “The castle? So, what, are you, like, nobility?”

“I guess,” Castiel shrugged. It was true – his father a nobleman, Castiel had grown up in the higher ranks of society. “I hated it, though.”

Dean’s eyes turned confused, glimmering with wonder and desire. “Why?” he asked, like he couldn’t imagine how someone could possibly not love life in a castle. “It seems so… magical.”

Castiel’s smile turned wry. “It’s not at all like a fairy tale,” he answered. “My, um. My dad, he was the fief’s baron. So he spent a lot of time hidden away in his office, or in meetings with staff and other important people. I didn’t see him too often. And my mom, she died when I was very little, so I was mostly on my own. My dad loved me, though, I knew he did. And I loved him, too. We just didn’t spend all that much time together. And the castle, it started feeling less like a home and more like a prison, the more time I spent tucked away inside its walls. It was too restrictive, too limited. I wanted out. I wanted _more._ Don’t get me wrong, I loved my father dearly, but I didn’t want to end up like him.

“I started sneaking out of the castle. There was this lovely forest right next to the castle and I always went there. I loved the smell of the air there, the feel of it against my skin. It was different than the air around the castle. It was pure. And I fell in love with it.”

He smiled as the memory overtook him. The smell of the forest just after the rain, the beams of the sun filtered by the leaves of the trees. “The woods became my second home. I spent so much time there. Taught myself a thing or two, like how to remain unseen by people there, how to walk over fallen leaves and brittle branches without making a sound. Those were very useful for playing pranks on people walking by.”

He grinned as Dean snorted, leaning his head against the wall. “But there was someone else roaming the forest. Living there. And I was invading his private space. Came too close to his cabin one day and he intercepted me. It was the local Ranger. Apparently, he had been keeping an eye on me during my little trips there.”

Dean looked at him sideways. “Was he angry?”

“On the contrary,” Castel grinned. “I thought he was, at first, of course. He was so mysterious. Equal parts intriguing and terrifying. But he was… impressed. He said that I was showing a lot of potential and that, with training and time, I could become a very good Ranger. If I wanted to.”

Dean frowned. “Did you want to?”

“I did. But my dad didn’t,” Castiel answered. “He wanted me to go to Battleschool. Become a knight, so I could work my way up and become a baron, some day. Just like him. And I wanted to make him proud. I really did. But I also wanted to be happy, to live my life as I wanted to. And I already knew back then, at that age, that I wouldn’t be happy if I went to Battleschool.

“When I was fifteen, I was supposed to apply for Battleschool. With my dad’s influence, there was no way I wasn’t going to be accepted. But I didn’t want to. I kept postponing it, putting it off. Until my dad got sick of it and sent the application himself. I was accepted, of course. But instead of reporting at Battleschool the next morning, I snuck into the forest that night. The Ranger was waiting for me on his veranda when I got there. I thought that was amazing, back then. Thought he read my mind, somehow, that he felt I would come to him that night. It wasn’t until later that I realized he probably heard me coming. They’re all light sleepers and I wasn’t exactly trying to be quiet. I was too busy having a breakdown.”

Dean chuckled, but his face radiated sympathy when Castiel glanced over at him. “What happened then?” he asked.

“I told him. Everything. I spilled my guts to him, everything that had been bothering me for the past couple of years. And all he said in return was, ‘You have to follow your heart.’ And I knew then that my heart lay right there. In the forest, in that simple life. Helping people the way they did. The way he helped me.”

“What did your dad say when he found out?” Dean whispered, caught up in the story. Castiel shrugged.

“I never found out. The Ranger let me sleep in his cabin and when I woke up, there were two horses in the stable instead of one. We travelled to the Gathering Grounds, where the Rangers’ meetings take place each year, and he had me admitted as an apprentice. Apparently, he talked to my dad that night. I don’t know what they said, don’t even know if my dad gave his permission. Rangers only have to answer to the King, so in the end I guess it doesn’t matter what he said. I didn’t go to Battleschool and became a Ranger’s Apprentice instead.”

Dean looked at him full of awe. “That’s incredible. That you dared defy your father like that. I don’t think I would have had the guts to do that.”

“Did your father want you to become someone you weren’t?” Castiel wondered. Dean shrugged.

“I don’t know. He did want me to take over the family business when I grew of age and he got old, you know? But I never knew what I wanted to be. Something with horses, I guess. I mean, I was too young to really think about it. And now, it doesn’t really matter anymore.”

“It does,” Castiel argued. “What would you like to do when we get back to Araluen? What profession?”

He slipped the ‘we’ in so casually it felt like it had always been that way. Dean looked at him, a long, hard stare. Castiel didn’t know what Dean saw in his eyes but he turned away eventually. “Horseschool seems great,” he murmured, resting his chin on his pulled-up knees. “Training the horses that the knights take into battle, that’s like… like a dream. It is a dream.”

He sighed wistfully and Castiel reached over to gently squeeze his hand. He moved to pull it back, after, but Dean held onto it so he left it there, in Dean’s soft grasp. “It won’t be a dream forever,” he promised. Dean smiled, small and crooked and not completely there, but it was a start.

 

****

 

With every new piece of information Castiel learned about the Skandians and their traditions, his level of tolerance for them shrank a little more. Plaguing coastal villages and raiding people of their well-earned possessions is a terrible way to earn your living, but it was not the only profession the Skandians practise, so it was not something he could use as a common factor that made Skandians bad people.

Keeping slaves, on the other hand – robbing people of their freedom, keeping them captive against their will and forcing them to do labour that, under the bad circumstances they were in, could result in their premature deaths, was the most disgusting and inhumane thing Castiel had ever come across. And the physical impact on the slaves was not even the only thing that drove them into misery. It was the mental impact in the same degree, if not more. Missing their families, the life they had before they were taken. The pain and loneliness they experienced must be tearing them apart. Castiel couldn’t even begin to imagine.

But he could see it in Dean’s eyes every time, in the dullness that overtook them every single day. It retreated a little whenever they were holed up together in their secret little spot in the stables, Grace warm against their backs, but it was always right there, just under the surface. All the pain and misery and suffering that Dean was carrying with him and that he was too afraid, too _alone_ to talk about. He had no one here, not really. Castiel had seen the way some slaves get, how mindless and numb they become, like they were not really there anymore.

Castiel feared every day that Dean would become like that.

Another shocking reveal had been made during dinner tonight, however, and Castiel was still utterly shocked and outraged.

A Jarl from a nearby district had come by and Erak had arranged a fancy dinner for the honoured guests, which, apparently, Charlie and Castiel belonged to as well. The dinner had been quite nice, actually, good food and better wine. It was served by slaves, which Castiel had tried to ignore, and everything was going fine until the Jarl made an offhand comment on ‘personal slaves’ and asked if any of the ones serving them belonged to Erak.

Castiel froze, his fork halfway up to his face, mouth slightly agape. The Oberjarl laughed. “Nah,” he’d said, “o’ course not. I don’ let her parade ‘round perverts like yerselves.”

There had been laughter, questioning looks exchanged between him and Charlie, and conversation continued on the topic. From their words and disrespectful comments, Castiel had figured out that personal slaves, who were always the prettiest girls that could be found, tended to the person that claimed them only. Not only in terms of food, but also in personal care, like preparing warm baths and cleaning their private quarters, and in bed.

And, well. Just when Castiel thought he had his anger under control, it flared up again like the roaring of thunder. A kick in the shin from Charlie and her stern glare were the only things that kept him from standing up and walking straight out of the room, or from speaking up to out his anger. He’d slammed his fork down on the table with unnecessary force and hadn’t touched the food on his plate for the remainder of the meal. He wouldn’t be able to stomach it. He noticed Charlie didn’t either.

The remainder of the meal couldn’t have gone by fast enough and he rushed outside as soon as he could. The cold air was like a smack in his face and he stumbles, catching his breath. It was late in the evening and the sun had already set, the last remainders of her light barely visible on the horizon. It was quiet in the yard at this hour, most of the slaves finishing up with the final bits of light before turning in for the day. Members of the Committee were scattered around the yard with scowls on their faces, yelling orders and profanities.

Castiel spotted Dean immediately. He was still dressed in Castiel’s sweater, which was a little too big on him. Today, for once, it didn’t make him look smaller than he already was. He saw Castiel and stretched out to see him better across the distance and the other people roaming the yard. The fabric was torn and frayed at the sleeves, but it still reached over his hands, only the very tips of his fingers poking out from under it. He was frowning, looking at Castiel as if he was concerned. Like it shouldn’t be the other way around.

Dean glanced around for a short moment before he made his way over to Castiel. The Ranger huffed. _This fucking kid, I swear to God…_

“Hi,” he said somewhat shyly, the determination he showed only a moment earlier fading fast. “Are you okay?”

He avoided Castiel’s gaze by looking at his feet, kicking gently at the soft layer of snow. “I’m fine,” Castiel answered. His words made Dean’s gaze flutter back up.

“Are you sure? You look like you’re about to faint,” he said softly, rubbing at the back of his neck. Castiel snorted. He felt that way, too.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he smiled, trying to make it as genuine as possible. A thought crossed his mind when Dean’s green eyes caught a glimmer of light from the torches placed at the entrance to the Great Hall – a horrible, horrible thought that he desperately wanted to escape but he couldn’t seem to get away from. His mind drifted to the words the Skandian Jarls uttered during dinner, replaying them in his head, and he wondered if they ever said things like that of Dean. If they ever commented on his lush lips, or on the sparkle in his green eyes or on the freckles decorating his pale skin. The thought made him angry. That feeling of powerlessness and injustice that he’d experienced before, but never as intensely as on this mission, in this country, flared up again, vivid and burning. His smile turned into a grimace. He knew Dean noticed, but the boy didn’t comment.

“Are _you_ okay?” Castiel asked, in a weak attempt to change the subject. His eyes searched Dean’s face, tracing the dark circles under his eyes and the deep shadows of his features. “You look… tired.”

It was an understatement, but he was fairly certain Dean knew that already so he didn’t elaborate. Dean just squinted at him, eyes searching Castiel’s face. “Stables tonight?” he whispered. Castiel nodded.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Dean said.

“I’ll be there,” Castiel promised.

Dean’s face fell into an expression of uncertainty. “You don’t have to wait for me. In there. On your own. I mean, it’s a stable, and you’re a Ranger, for God’s sake. You- you really don’t-”

“It’s fine,” Castiel assured him with a light touch to his shoulder. “I don’t mind waiting. I’ll see you when you get there.”

He took off without giving Dean room to argue, headed for the small, cosy-looking structure at the far end of the yard. The cold was barely kept out in the main part of it, but when he opened Grace’s stable, the iron of the door creaking, he was enveloped by a soft warmth that drove away the worst of the cold. Grace whinnied when he walked in, bobbing her head in glee. He couldn’t help but smile as he took her snout in both his hands and rubbed circles into her skin with his thumbs.

“Hey, girl,” he whispered, stroking the coat of her neck lovingly. It was a bit dull. She looked sad. “I know I should take you out more,” he continued, “but there’s really nowhere we can go for a ride. It’s all snowy outside, and I know how much you hate snow. And there’s not really any space for a horse out there; it’s just buildings and deep forests and mountains beyond that. I’d be too scared you’d break a leg.”

He’d only taken her out of the stables for short walks or lunges to make sure she got some exercise, but there really was no good place around here to go for a proper ride without risking damage. The roads here were maintained poorly.

Grace whinnied sadly and Castiel gently scratched at the skin behind her ears. “I know, sweetheart. We’ll be out of here before you know it and you’ll be running around in our field again.”

She gave him a one-eyed stare. _You said that weeks ago_.

“Smart aleck,” Castiel muttered. “Just be patient. It shouldn’t take much longer.”

Then again, it shouldn’t have taken this long in the first place. He tried to ignore that, to keep his positive spirit up.

Grace lied down in the heap of soft hay in the corner of her stable, legs folded neatly underneath her. Castiel cuddled up beside her, fingers stroking the soft hair on her back. He lost himself in his thoughts, the rhythmic movement of Grace’s chest as she breathed and the regular sounds outside soothing him and blurring together into one static background noise. He felt himself slipping away, leaning heavily against Grace with his head resting on her ribs. The last thing he saw before he drifted off to sleep was the door to Grace’s stable, opened just a crack.

_He woke up from the heat. He was sticky, sweat soaking his clothes and making them cling to his body. A drop trickled down his face and dripped onto his hand. The overwhelming stench of smoke tickled his nose and he coughed as it clogged his throat, making it hard for him to breathe. He felt wide awake but he couldn’t seem to open his eyes. His eyelids were heavy, like they were glued together, and it took a near-superhuman effort to pry them apart._

_As soon as they opened, he wanted to close them again. The light was so bright it hurt but he couldn’t shut it out. As his eyes took in the state the stables were in, his heart froze over. There were flames everywhere, licking away at the pine wood hungrily. Thick, black smoke hid the ceiling from view and Castiel spluttered out some more coughs as he tried to back away. Only when his back hit the wall of the stable, he realized that Grace was no longer there. A panic flared up in his chest, more painful than the burning heat of the flames and immobilizing. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get himself to move, to get out of here._

_When he turned back around to the front of the stables, he was faced with something else entirely; Pamela. Her eyes were still dead but she was standing on her own two feet, a large gash in her side visible through her clothes. It was dripping blood onto the hay, forming a small red puddle. She casted her lifeless glare on him, pointing a blood-covered finger._

_“You,” she hissed, grasping at the wound on her side in pain. “This is on you.”_

_Castiel squeezed his eyes shut, guilt overtaking his mind-numbing fear for a moment._ I know _, he wanted to shout,_ I know it’s my fault. I’m sorry.

_But he couldn’t form the words, quite like he couldn’t get his legs to carry him out of here, to run away and hide somewhere he didn’t have to feel this pain._

_When he opened his eyes again, Pamela was gone. Instead, he was faced with a Skandian warrior, the large horns on his helmet standing out like those of the Devil in the shadow of the fire. The light glinted on the double blade of his battle axe. Castiel couldn’t see his face, but he knew the man was grinning triumphantly as he raised his weapon, stepping closer and closer…_

_“Castiel,” he bellowed, voice roaring even louder than the fire around them. The smoke thickened and invaded his nose, his mouth, travelled down into his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. He was staring in the face of death and he was panicking, gasping for breath as the Skandian kept calling his name._

_“Castiel,” he said, in a lower tone. It sounded confused and Castiel didn’t understand._

_“Castiel?” he repeated, laced with concern now, and Castiel frowned as he sucked in a shaky breath around a mouthful of heavy smoke._

_“Cas!” the Skandian called, but he no longer had the thundering, harsh voice. “Hey, Cas.”_

_The Skandian knelt in front of him and moved his arm forward. Castiel braced himself for a fist to his jaw but instead found a hand grasping his shoulder and squeezing gently._

_“Cas?” he asked again, but now Castiel recognized the voice, the subtle rasp of Dean’s throat and the gentle tone he speaks in. “Castiel, wake up.”_

Those last two words echoed in his mind like a mantra and he shot up, startling a whinny out of Grace and a “Whoa, whoa, easy there” out of… Dean.

Castiel looked around. The stables were in perfect state. There were no flames in sight, Grace was a warm presence against his back and the hand on his shoulder definitely did not belong to a Skandian warrior. He breathed a sigh of relief. _It was just a dream. It was just a dream. It was just a dream…_

“You okay?” Dean asked, brows furrowed in concern. Castiel breathed out.

“Yeah,” he answered, coughing. His lungs were clean. Smokeless. He shuddered. “It was just a dream.”

Dean squeezed his shoulder once more before taking a seat beside him. Their arms were touching and Castiel relished in the simple yet grounding contact. “Want to talk about it?” Dean asked. He shrugged.

“Not really,” he admitted. “It was about the reason for this mission, so I can’t, anyway.”

Dean nodded, pursing his lips. “Will you ever tell me?” he wondered out loud. Castiel turned his head so they were facing each other.

“Someday,” he murmured. “Someday, I will.”

“When you get me back to Araluen?” Dean teased. Castiel could tell by his tone of voice that he didn’t really believe he would ever return.

“Yeah,” he croaked, scraping his throat before he tried again. “Yes. When I get you back home.”

Dean looked away, gaze fixed on the few stars that were visible from their corner of the building. A silence fell between them for a few short moments. “You called me Cas,” Castiel suddenly realized. It wasn’t like he’d never heard the nickname before – his father called him that a lot when he was younger, and some of his few friends stuck to it simply because it was easier to pronounce – but it was unexpected. When he glanced over, Dean’s cheeks were adorned with a light blush.

“I did. I, uh- I hope you don’t mind,” he stuttered. Castiel smiled.

“I don’t mind.”

Dean smiled back, though his gaze didn’t stray from the night sky. “It was cold today. Even colder than usual. Winter is really starting to reach its peak,” he said.

“Are your clothes still okay? I can get you some new ones,” Castiel offered. Dean’s smile softened and he glanced over at him.

“No, they’re fine. Thank you. I just- it made me realize how different it is from Araluen, here,” he chuckled humourlessly. “It’s weird, I know – I’ve been here for years, and I stopped thinking about Araluen a long time ago. I accepted my fate. But now it’s all coming back to me. Old memories that I’d forgotten about. I- for the first time in years, I felt… I felt _homesick_.”

He stared at the stable doors with a blank expression on his face, but Castiel could see it was weird for him, that it was freaking him out a little. Dean pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs, laying his cheek on his knees so he was looking at Castiel. “I think it’s because of you.”

Castiel opened his mouth to apologize, but Dean cut him to it. “I don’t mean it as a bad thing. I didn’t let myself feel anything, because it was easier, you know? I didn’t let myself think about- about home, and how things used to be. But now you’re here, and you’re bringing it all back. It’s… painful. But also kind of a relief.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said anyway. Dean shook his head. Outside, a large, dark cloud covered what they could see of the sky and snow started falling.

“Really, don’t be. It’s okay,” Dean replied. “It’s just- Skandia is so _different_ , you know? It’s so cold, and barren, and… colourless. In Araluen – or at least, what I remember of it – the sky was always blue, and the grass was greener than anywhere else. There were flowers, and different kinds of trees and- and it was never cold. Never this cold.

“We lived in this small town, not too far from the sea- my dad, my little brother Sammy, and me. there was this large field just behind the village and on good days, when the weather was nice, I’d go there with my brother and my friends, and we’d play there. Stupid games, like Tag and stuff, but we always had so much fun.”

A small smile graced his face, lost in memory, and Castiel couldn’t stop staring at him.

“Some days, one of our parents would make this huge basket full of food,” Dean continued, “and we’d bring a large blanket and have a picnic in the grassland. My friend owned some horses and sometimes her mom would let her bring them. I didn’t have any horses of my own, but I always wanted one. Jo always let me help take care of hers. You don’t want to know the amount of time we spent in their stables together.

“Or Benny. God, Benny and I used to have the _best_ time. He was a few years older than me, y’know, the ‘cool kid’, so I was so thrilled when he’d hang out with me. We just clicked, we had a strong friendship. His dad was a fisherman, so he was out on the river or the sea a lot. Benny used to tag along often and he’d let me come, too, sometimes. I never really liked being on a ship, it always gave me this anxious feeling, you know? I hated it but Benny loved it so I just went with it. We did lots of fun stuff too, though. We played pranks on the people in the village. Got old Frank real’ good a couple of times.”

His smile was genuine and bright and Castiel had never seen anything so beautiful.

“There were flowers, too. I remember. Lots of flowers. There was this huge field of forget-me-nots and I’d pick them and make them into a bouquet to… to put on my mom’s grave.” His smile turned sad. Castiel moved in closer. “I brought her new flowers every week. She loved them. We always had a vase with different kinds and colours in our house. She picked them herself. And while she was cutting the stems short, my dad would always come up behind her and kiss her on the cheek. I remember.”

His smile faded completely then and Castiel rested a hand on his shoulder. “I miss it,” Dean whispered, voice cracking. “I miss them. I miss home. I miss everyone.”

He turned so his face was hidden in Castiel’s shoulder and grabbed onto his tunic for comfort. Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean’s shaking form and held him close.

“I know,” he murmured. “I promise you’ll see them all again someday. Someday soon.”

Dean clung to him tighter, pressed into him harder. “You promise?” he asked in a tiny, broken voice, thick with tears.

“Yes. I promise. I will do everything in my power and more to get you out of here. To get you back home.”

It took him some time, but Dean finally stopped shaking. His shoulders relaxed and he sighed deeply, glancing up at Castiel through his eyelashes. “Thank you,” he whispered. Castiel smiled softly and pressed a kiss to his forehead. They lay like that until Dean started to fall asleep.

And there, in the moment when Castiel gazed down onto Dean’s face, close enough that he could count the freckles on his nose and see his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, he came to a conclusion. As his fingers delicately stroked Dean’s hair out of his face, the boy’s skin soft and warm under his touch, the realization hit him like a punch to the gut. It was bittersweet, considering their… _situation_ , but it made Castiel glow on the inside like he had never before.

He was in love with Dean.

A sense of longing started somewhere in the depths of his chest and worked its way up, embedded itself into his heart and was now making his chest constrict tightly with the desire to care and be cared for, hold and be held, _love and be loved._

But he knew, as certain as he knew that the sun would rise in the morning, that Dean wasn’t ready to hear that. He was damaged, torn apart by whatever had happened to him for the past God knows how long, and this was something that Castiel had no right putting on his plate, on top of everything else the boy already had to deal with.

As Dean sighed in his sleep and nuzzled closer into Castiel, the Ranger decided that it was okay. He didn’t need to say it. Dean didn’t need to consciously know. As long as he could show him that he loved him, that he cared and that he was there for him, saying it wasn’t necessary.

And maybe later – and Castiel conveniently ignored how small the chances were of the two of them having a ‘later’ – maybe then Castiel could tell him. Until then, he was good to wait.

Even though it was snowing and the temperature was far below freezing point, Castiel felt warm inside.


	6. Going to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean fit perfectly, as if he belonged there. Castiel was starting to think that maybe he did.

Finally, after a full month of waiting, Svengal returned.

Castiel had half expected his Wolfship – the _Wolfwind_ – to be quite spectacular, because it was the Oberjarl’s former ship, but it didn’t look any different than all the others. Svengal himself wasn’t really any different than all the other Skandians, either. He talked loudly and he laughed a lot but he didn’t seem too over-the-top. He wasn’t as obnoxious as Gundar. Castiel thought he was probably quite alright.

Yes, he _thought_. Because he didn’t get the chance to actually talk to the guy. Now that they could finally move on with the investigation, he was itchy to do so. But Erak called Svengal into his office and Castiel and Charlie were locked out. Castiel thought it was rather suspicious but Charlie assured him that it was normal, that Erak should get a chance to talk to Svengal in his own way. With a delegation from a foreign country in front of him, he might feel attacked.

Castiel huffed but let it be. It was frustrating, though, not being able to do something. All he’d done, all he’d _really_ done since he arrived here, was wait. It wasn’t like he’d been sitting on his ass but what they came here to do, their mission, they’d made very little progress with that. The waiting was driving him insane.

He hung around the yard while the meeting took place, unwilling to go far in case he got called into Erak’s office, too. The sun was hanging quite low in the sky already – it wasn’t necessarily late in the afternoon, but Skandian days were shorter than Araluan ones – and it enlarged the shadow of the Great Hall. Castiel hid in its semi-darkness easily, his green-brown-grey-mottled cloak making him almost invisible against the pine wood background.

The yard was, as always, crawling with activity. The occasional Skandian entered or exited the Great Hall, but it was mainly the slaves that were roaming around the area. They were conducting business as usual – as far as one could call their situation ‘business’ – pulling sleds of firewood from the woods and preparing freshly-caught wildlife for the kitchen. Dean was there, too, off to the side with, surprisingly, an axe in his hands. Upon closer inspection, Castiel noticed that the weapon looked old and that it could use a sharpening. There were dents in the blade and the wooden shaft is faded.

Castiel observed from a distance as one of the slaves pulling a sled stopped in front of Dean and started unloading the logs. Dean put the axe down on top of the tree trunk he was standing in front of to help. The other slave disappeared, the rope of the sled swung over his shoulder, once all the logs were lying in the snow around Dean. Castiel was too far away to hear anything but he saw Dean’s chest expand then detract as he sighed deeply. For a short moment, Castiel could see the outline of the boy’s ribs through the fabric of his shirt. The by now familiar anger flared up in his chest again, briefly but sharply. He was going to talk Erak into letting him go, he promised himself there and then. He would convince the Oberjarl.

Dean picked up one of the logs and placed it in the middle of the tree trunk, vertically. Castiel watched, unmoving, as he picked up the axe, raised it above his head and then let it come down onto the log. The wood split clean in two and Dean tossed the pieces to the side, where a considerable pile of chopped logs was starting to take form, before wriggling the axe out of the trunk and grabbing a new log, to repeat the process all over again. He’d been at it for a while and Castiel could see the fatigue in his body language from a distance away. His arms trembled a little every time he raised the axe and Castiel desperately wanted to go over there to take Dean inside and give him some food and a bed to get some proper rest.

The door to the Great Hall opened and closed and suddenly, Charlie was standing beside him. She was wearing her uniform, which she stopped wearing every day when they were told there was nothing they could do for a while – so she put it on for Svengal’s return, or more specifically, for the meeting that would (hopefully) follow it. A part of Castiel kept telling him it was all some kind of trap, a set-up. After all, the whole story with Svengal and the schedule was shady at best and ridiculous at worst. It would make no sense, though. There are too many loose ends.

“I almost didn’t see you there,” Charlie said, leaning against the wall next to him. He glanced over at her briefly to acknowledge her before his eyes slid back to Dean. “That’s the whole point,” he replied. Charlie followed his gaze through the yard until they landed on Dean. She didn’t say anything. Castiel was grateful.

“Oh, is that so?” she teased. “Are you, what, trying to run and hide from your responsibilities now? From the truth? Now that we’re so close to finding out what in Hell is going on here?”

Castiel moved to object, but then hesitated. “Maybe,” he admitted, eyebrows pulled together into a frown. He hadn’t thought of it that way, but now that she mentioned it… “Maybe I am trying to run away. Because if Svengal knows who the rogue Skirl is – and if it really is a rogue Skirl, and nothing more – there is nothing else we can do.”

He didn’t clarify what they would be doing something about, but his unwavering gaze at the boy in the snow gave enough of an explanation. Charlie nodded silently, radiating understanding and compassion, before she straightened up and hit Castiel in the chest with the back of her hand. “Woman up, idiot,” she grinned. “You are so whipped. Next thing I know you’re going to be swooning over his freckles and having wet dreams about him.” She pulled a face. “In our shared room. Yeah, _so_ not going to happen.”

Castiel tore his gaze away from Dean to scowl at Charlie. “I do not _swoon_ ,” he countered, straightening his spine. Charlie snorted.

“Yeah, right. And I don’t know what you were doing here, but you _absolutely_ weren’t ogling him.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes at her but she just rolled her eyes. “Erak is ready to see us now. Let’s go.”

Castiel stood up sharply and pushed past her, just to hide the blush that was starting to creek up his cheeks. He casted a last glance at Dean before he entered the Great Hall. The other boy looked up just as he looked back and for a moment, their eyes met. Castiel was the only one who knew that, though, because the cowl on his cloak was pulled forward over his head. Against Castiel’s expectations, Dean shot him a smile, still, before going back to work.

Svengal wasn’t any different than Castiel had expected him to be. He was nice, if you ignored his unintentionally inappropriate behaviour. His hair was ginger, contrary to Erak’s blond

beard and Gundar’s dark brown one, and he had his tied down in a single braid in the middle. His helmet was just as large, his sheepskin vest just as greasy and his limbs just as fat and strong as every other Skandian.

“’llo,” he drawled when Castiel and Charlie enter the Oberjarl’s office. He extended a hand that they each shook. His grip was so firm it hurt, and Castiel feared that he may soon have a broken hand if he had to shake any more Skandian’s hands. “Nice ter meet yeh. Sorry ‘bout me bad timin’, by the way. If I’d known yeh were comin’, I wouldn’t’ve left.”

Charlie put on her diplomatic smile and waved his words away with a simple hand gesture. “It’s all right. You didn’t know.” Before Castiel could move in to object, she moved on. “Now, Oberjarl Starfollower, is there any news?”

She folded her hands neatly behind her back as she awaited Erak’s answer. The Skandian gestured to the large chairs sat in front of his desk. “Take a seat,” he grumbled. “Yes, there’s news.”

Castiel apprehensively perched on the chair, hands folded in his lap. He didn’t trust himself to move them at this moment. He was too tense, too on-edge awaiting the news.

“Svengal an’ I had a talk, and together, we figured out what’s goin’ on here. Kind o’,” the Oberjarl started. Castiel raised his eyebrows.

“Kind of?” he echoed. “What do you mean, ‘Kind of’?”

Erak shot him an annoyed look and continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “This whole situation’s bigger than we thought it was. We’ve come ter the conclusion that there’s a corrupt Jarl in the country.”

Castiel stilled at that. He felt Charlie beside him doing the same. “A corrupt Jarl?” she parroted. “Are you certain?”

“’Bout as certain as we can be,” Erak offered. “The problem is that we don’ know which one, but it’s got ter be someone in the west, ‘long the coast, from where they can make quick trips ter Araluen an’ back with only a small change o’ others noticin’.”

“How can you be sure of this if you don’t even know which Jarl it would be?” Castiel questioned.

Svengal was the one to answer. “’Cause I ran into a ship on me trip,” he explained. “They were sailin’ in forbidden waters, too close ter allied territory for me likin’. So we went over ter rap ‘em ‘cross the knuckles, but they claimed that the Jarl o’ their district’d given ‘em permission ter sail an’ raid there. I asked ‘em what the name o’ that Jarl is, but they jus’ said they ‘ain’ snitches’.”

“What about the Wolfship that raided Araluen?” Charlie asked. “The one that was scheduled to patrol the coast. Do we know which district that one is from?”

“Uh- it’s a lil’ more complicated than that,” Svengal grunted. He looked a little pissed-off. “Yeh see, the ship assigned to patrollin’ duty that period is a friend o’ mine. An’ I confronted him ‘bout it. He said they sailed over there, but they hadn’ even been there fer a couple o’ days when ‘nother Wolfship approached ‘em. That Skirl didn’ say where he was from, jus’ said that there was a mistake in the schedule an’ that they’d take over the shift.”

Castiel frowned. That sounded like a seedy excuse. “And they didn’t question it?” he wondered out loud. Svengal snorted.

“O’course they didn’. E’ryone’d be happy ter be relieved o’ that duty. It ain’ fun ter waste away on a ship when yeh know yeh could be makin’ big money somewhere else.”

“Did your friend at least know who it was?” Castiel asked, annoyed. Svengal shrugged.

“Nah, never seen ‘im before,” he answered.

“So we don’ know where he’s from either,” Erak continued for him. “Best-case scenario, he’s from the same district as the other one.”

“And worst-case scenario?” Charlie asked. Erak pulled a face.

“He’s from another district. With another corrupt Jarl.”

Charlie sighed. “As if one corrupt Jarl wasn’t good enough…”

Erak hesitated only a little before he heaved out a deep sigh and sank down onto his chair heavily. “The problem’s not jus’ the Jarl bein’ corrupt,” he grumbled. “It’s that he’s startin’ an uprising.”

Charlie’s worried frown deepened. “An uprising?”

“Yeah, like a revolution, or whatever yeh want ter call it,” Erak said. “By goin’ against me orders he’s defyin’ me an’ me authority. There’ve been rumours from the west fer a while now, sayin’ that me becomin’ Oberjarl is not as commonly accepted there as it is here in the east. I always waved ‘em away, didn’ think anythin’ of ‘em.” He sighed deeply. “Stupid. An’ now I’ve got a major problem on me hands. And I put it on you guys, too.”

He looked sad and guilty. Castiel averted his eyes. “Can’t you, you know, send an army out there to suppress the uprising and restore order?” he suggested.

Erak squinted at him like he’d gone mad. “Have yeh met Skandians?”

Charlie sniggered. “He has a point.”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel bit back a smile. “All jokes aside, if there really is an uprising, what are you planning on doing about it?” he asked. Erak pursed his lips, stroking his beard as he pondered.

“I’ll send someone over to that part of the country to size up the situation. Let’s not jump ter any conclusions yet. It may not be that bad,” he said slowly. “Try an’ keep it nice an’ peaceful over here.”

“But what if it is that bad?” Charlie wondered. “What will you do then?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get ter it. But if I may ask yeh fer a favour, a lil’ help from you guys’d be nice,” Erak answered, a small smile on his face.

“Yes, of course. We’ll stay a little longer,” Charlie replied. “As the treaty states, if the allied country is in trouble, we’re helping.”

Castiel nodded his agreement. “We’ll be here,” he offered. “I hope it turns out to be no reason for worries.” He meant it, too. Erak was a good leader and a nice man, despite their different cultures and upbringings.

Erak sent him a small, tight smile as he stood up to shake their hands once more, signalling the end of the meeting. “Yeah,” he replied, “me too.”

Castiel and Charlie shook Svengal’s hand too and exited the Oberjarl’s office to let him deal with his business. He turned to face her once the door had fallen shut behind them. “So, Erak could be in serious trouble. All of us could be in serious trouble,” he says. Charlie nodded.

“But it could also be nothing. We could be staying here for God-knows how much longer for nothing,” she argued. Castiel looked down.

“Yeah…” he mumbled. “For some reason, I don’t believe that’s true.”

Charlie bit her lip. “Me neither. So, what do we do?”

“We prepare ourselves for the worst,” he answered. “That way, if it turns out to not be as bad, we won’t be disappointed.”

Charlie nodded. “I’ll send a letter to King Duncan to explain the situation. He can ready an army and have it stand-by in case things do get bad.”

Castiel sighed. “We came here with the intention to prevent a war, and now we might get stuck in the middle of a different one.”

Charlie’s expression was one of sympathy as she put a hand on his arm. “At least we got here early. We’re already figuring it out before it’s happening. There’s a good chance of this ending well, without much trouble. We may not even need to get involved if Erak takes action in time.”

“I know,” Castiel replied. “But a war is a war. And you’ll feel it everywhere. Even if we don’t have to get physically involved, we’ll feel it.”

 

****

 

“Excuse me,” Castiel said, loud enough for his voice to drag across the yard. Only few people looked up from their work. He was addressing a member of the Committee, staring down at the slave with an air of authority about him. It was a stance he mostly took on during missions, when interrogating suspects, but he was hoping it would work just as well in this situation.

Dean was standing only a few metres away from him, looking mildly petrified and staring at Castiel with wide eyes. Castiel ignored him for the moment. He was standing in a foot’s worth of snow that was soaking through the fabric of his pants, having a staring match with a slave. The meeting with Erak and Svengal from yesterday still fresh in his mind, an idea popped into his head when he saw Dean carrying logs from point A to point B.

“Yes?” the Committee-member grunted. The whip dangling from his hand had a vicious, hardened piece at the end and Castiel tried hard not to think of the damage it could do.

“I need to borrow one of your slaves,” he stated calmly. Neither of them had broken eye contact so far but Castiel had put up his most Ranger-like façade and there was a reason so many people fear them, beside the superstition.

“What for?” the slave bit. “There’s no way in Hell I’m letting you take one of them.”

Castiel hardened his gaze and took a step forward, into the slave’s space. “Don’t talk to me like that,” he said, voice dangerously low. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I have an errand to run and I could use a hand.”

The slave’s gaze faltered for a moment but he didn’t let up. “Like I said, you’re not taking any.”

Castiel moved in even closer, using the few inches he had on the guy to tower over him. “What do you think the Oberjarl would say if I told him you talk to his most trusted ally like that?” he whispered, clicking his tongue. “I don’t think he’d be very pleased about it. Hate to think about what he’d do to you.”

The slave glared at him for another moment before looking away. “Only one,” he muttered. “Which one would you like to take?”

Castiel smirked. “That’s more like it.” He tried to look uninterested as he did a quick, unnecessary look-over through the yard. Finally, he gestured vaguely in Dean’s general direction. “That one will do. I’ll get him back to you by sundown.”

He shot the member of the Committee a mocking smile and motioned for Dean to follow. “Come on, hurry up. I don’t have all day.”

He watched in hidden amusement as Dean scrambled to put the logs down semi-decently and rush after him. His head was bowed and his hands were folded together in front of him. He kept walking a few steps behind Castiel until the stockade hid the yard from their view. Even then, he was hesitant to catch up to the Ranger, with the eyes of the village possibly on them.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, head still bowed obediently. He was only a single step behind Castiel now so they could talk, but he was careful not to walk at the same pace.

“I’m giving you your first day off in years,” he muttered back. “Figured you deserve one.”

He could practically hear Dean blush. “I’m serious, Cas. What are you doing talking to me in broad daylight, where everyone can see?”

“Just trust me, okay?” he whisper-yelled. Dean grumbled a “Fine” and fell back until he was a few steps behind once more. Castiel lead them through the village, down a few shortcuts until they reached the edge of the woods.

“You know we could have accessed the woods directly from the yard, right?” Dean pointed out.

“Yes, but that would have been too obvious. I’m trying to at least be a little discreet here,” Castiel replied.

“Well, you got me. I have no idea what you’re doing,” Dean teased. He didn’t seem nervous at all. Castiel hated thinking about how he used to be but he couldn’t help but go back to the first time it was really just the two of them, how jumpy and on-edge he was. They’d come a long way since then.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he grinned, and he gently grabbed Dean’s wrist to start pulling him along into the forest. He led the by now familiar path through the bushes and trees, pushing away the branches that hung in their way.

The path widened into the shooting range he’d been spending most of his time at. He watched as Dean’s eyes widened in surprise and wonder when he lifted his head to observe the area. The boy turned to him with a question in his eyes and Castiel couldn’t help but grin.

The weight of his longbow on his back was familiar and comforting. He lifted it off his shoulder and balanced it on his hand. It was almost as large as he was tall, made completely out of little pieces and branches of wood that were bound and glued together with perfected precision. This structure made it more bendable, thus easier to use and less likely to break.

Dean watched in cautious wonder as Castiel presented it to him to study. His eyes glided over the wood-made weapon before darting up to Castiel’s face.

“That’s your bow. I’ve never seen it up close,” he said.

Castiel planted one end of the bow onto the ground. “I’m going to teach you how to use it,” he stated.

Dean gaped at him in bewildered awe. “You’re… are you serious?”

“Deadly so,” Castiel replied. “It’s- I can’t discuss why and how – diplomatic discretion and all that – but… I have reason to believe that there might be a tough time coming up, and I want you to be able to defend yourself if that situation does present itself.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

Castiel hesitated. “There might be. There may very well also not be. But I always like to be prepared for the worst-case scenario.”

Dean nodded carefully. “And you think the worst-case scenario involves me needing to know how to use a bow and arrow?”

“It might,” Castiel answered hesitantly. “I hope it doesn’t. I’m also just using it as an excuse to spend time with you somewhere that is not in the stables at night.”

Dean’s cheeks turned bright red but he smiled despite himself. “Isn’t this too dangerous? One of the slaves could go to get wood and end up spotting us.”

Castiel shrugged. “I don’t know. Beside you, I’ve never seen a slave come all the way out here.”

“Well, I did. When I was gathering wood. So it is possible,” Dean countered, shuffling his feet as he avoided Castiel’s eyes. The Ranger smirked.

“Something tells me that they usually don’t go this far,” he said. “You sure you weren’t, I don’t know, following me?”

His smile was teasing and his posture was as non-threatening as it could be when holding a massive longbow, so he gaped in confusion when he saw panic flare up in Dean’s eyes.

“I’m- I’m sorry I lied,” he stammered, folding his hands nervously and hunching in on himself. “I- it won’t happen again. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, no, that’s not- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” he stressed. He took a step closer to Dean but the slave flinched away. “I was just teasing you. I promise I’m not mad at you.”

He raised his free hand in a comforting gesture and dropped the level of his voice. Over the past few weeks, he got better at storing away his expression and making sure he didn’t come across as threatening.

Cautious, he tried again, and this time Dean let him step in close and put a hand on his cheek. The boy closed his eyes at the touch, fearful, but opened them again as he noticed that it wasn’t a hostile one. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again. Castiel smiled softly.

“It’s okay,” he promised.

Leaning into the touch slightly, Dean put his hand over Castiel’s and squeezed a little. He scraped his throat. “So, um. Archery?”

Castiel sobered up and retracted his hand. “Yeah. Archery.”

He took a step back and got a firmer grip on his bow. “Yeah. So, um. Bow and arrow. You’re going to need those, obviously. I don’t have a spare bow with me but I can teach you how to make one. We’ll do with mine until then.”

Dean’s eyes widened comically. “You’d let me use your weapon?”

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t have another one right now. Mine will probably be a little hard for you to use because it’s made for advanced users but I’m sure you’ll be fine,” he answered, puzzled. Dean shook his head.

“No, I mean- you’re okay with that? You’re willing to let me touch and use your bow?”

Castiel shrugged. “Yeah, sure. It’s not that big of a deal.”

Dean looked a little embarrassed, cheeks still tinted a soft pink. “I thought, you know, that your- your weapons are sort of, I don’t know, holy to you?” He was playing with his fingers awkwardly and all Castiel could think was that it was quite endearing.

“I’m not _that_ bad,” he grinned. “I don’t like when other people touch it and I never let anyone use it, except maybe my co-workers in times of need. But, uh. I don’t know. This is different. You’re different.”

It came out – well, not _wrong_ , exactly. He didn’t know how he’d meant for it to sound. He groaned internally and rephrased. “All I’m saying is that desperate times call for desperate measures. I have one bow so we’ll need to share. And- and I trust you.”

The last phrase came out a little more hesitantly – though not any less truthfully – but Dean beamed at the words, straightening his back in a more confident posture. “Alright,” he said. “I can work with that. Let’s do this.”

Castiel chuckled at his eagerness. “Not so fast, oh young apprentice. I need to talk you through some basic knowledge first.”

Dean’s blush deepened but his grin widened and not for the first time, Castiel mentally swooned over how easily he could make Dean blush.

“First, you need to know how to hold it properly,” he said, holding the bow out for Dean to take. The boy did so slowly and carefully, holding the weapon in both hands like it was a delicate artefact that needed to be handled with care. Castiel showed him quickly.

“You’re right-handed, correct?” Upon Dean’s nod, he took Dean’s left hand and placed it on the bow just below the middle, curving his fingers around it. “There. That’s good. Now-” He reached over his shoulder and took and arrow out of his quiver, handing it to Dean. He actually looked scared as he took it, fingers stroking through the white arrows on the far end gently. “Go ahead,” Castiel urged, “nock it.”

Dean swallowed and placed the arrow on the string, pulling it back only a little bit. Castiel moved in closer. “Here, hold it like this-” he offered, twisting the arrow so the little slit he’d carved into the butt end of the arrow – the nock – fit onto the bowstring and was held in place. Then he put his hands over Dean’s, adjusting his fingers until they had the string resting on the first joint of the first, second and third fingers, with the index finger placed above the nock point and the others below it.

The flush on Dean’s face spread onto his ears and neck when Castiel moved back to stand directly in front of him. He gently took the hand that Dean had convulsively wrapped around the bow and placed them in such a way that the arrow rested on top of his middle finger, with his index finger on the wood above the arrowhead.

Castiel nodded, satisfied. “That’s good. Remember this position. But don’t think too much about it – it’ll come naturally after you’ve done it a few times.”

Dean shot him a distracted smile. “What now?” he asked. Castiel grinned.

“Try and shoot it. Aim for that target.” He pointed at a bale of hay that lay only about ten metres away from them, a white-and-red circle painted in the middle of it. Dean took a deep breath, shuffled his feet until they were placed steadily onto the uneven ground, and tried to draw back the string. He made it about halfway, wavering there for a bit while he trembled with the effort and was forced to relax again after a few seconds. Panting, he turned to Castiel with a half-assed glare. The Ranger grinned.

“Sorry. I’m just having a little bit of fun.” Dean’s glare hardened and Castiel bit his lip to repress his smile. “You need to use your back, not just your arms. Try using your muscles there.” He pressed onto Dean’s back, fingers sliding over the muscles in between his shoulder blades through the fabric of Dean’s jumper. “Pull your shoulder blades together.”

Dean breathed in and out deeply a couple of times, then lifted the bow and pulled back the string once more. He made it further this time, but still not far enough to launch the arrow with full strength. He didn’t tremble as much now, however. Castiel used the short period of time Dean managed to hold it to explain the last few things.

“When you’re taking aim, the feathers on the arrow must touch your lips, and your thumb should lay against your chin. Aim thoroughly, but don’t wait too long to let go or your arm will go numb and you’ll miss.”

Dean’s shoulders relaxed and he lowered the bow. His face was red from exertion now rather than embarrassment and he let out a soft laugh as he handed the weapon back. “That’s really heavy,” he panted. “I didn’t realize it took that much strength just to nock a bow.”

“It’s a longbow, they’re not known to be particularly easy to use,” he replied. “You did well, though. It took me a couple of months of training before I could use it. I’ll make you a recurve one for you to begin with; those take less strength to use. Maybe, if we find enough time, I can teach you how to make it yourself.”

Dean smiled, the arrow still in his hands. “Yeah, that’s probably best. Damn, how do you use that thing?”

He massaged and prodded at the muscles in his arms and Castiel couldn’t hold in his laugh. “Long training and hard work, that’s how,” he answered. Dean huffed.

“I don’t believe you. There’s no way you can shoot arrows as fast and accurate as I saw you doing that day with _that_ thing. It’s not possible. I’m not buying it. You- you probably used a different bow.”

Castiel smirked. “Do you want to see it?”

“I’d love to see you try,” Dean huffed indignantly. He was still rubbing at the muscles in his shoulder and Castiel shook his head, laughing.

“Alright, let’s do it.”

He took the arrow from Dean and nocked it, hands slipping into their correct positions on instinct. Pulling back the bowstring did take a large amount of strength, but it was something Castiel had been doing for years so it came with relative ease. He pulled his shoulder blades together in the same movement with which he pulled back his arm and stopped when he felt the feather tickling the skin just below his nose.

His thumb stroked across his lips and it caught the warmth of his breath as he exhaled and released his grip on the string. The arrow pierced through the air while the bowstring snapped back against his leather arm protector with a sickening _crack_. The sound echoed through the clearing at the same time as the arrow hit its target, cutting through the bundled hay exactly in the centre of the red dot.

Before it got there, however, Castiel already reached back and up to take another arrow from his quiver, nocked it, took aim and let it fly away just as smoothly as the first one. It drilled a hole in the hay only an inch or so to the right of the other arrow.

 

 

When he turned back to Dean, the boy was gaping at him with his mouth opened slightly. “What the- how do you even- oh my God.”

Castiel laughed. It was a weirdly genuine one and it took him by surprise a little – he hadn’t laughed that freely in a long time. “Like I said,” he replied, “practice.”

“I’m officially impressed,” Dean remarked. He was looking at Castiel like he was a strange creature from another world, but at the same time seemed to be quite in awe.

“Maybe we should start with something a little easier,” Castiel suggested, feeling his skin prickle under Dean’s gaze. “Something more subtle.”

“Yeah, maybe something I can actually carry with me without anyone seeing it,” Dean retorted.

Castiel pushed back one side of his cloak to reveal the double scabbard on the left side of his belt, both of his knives seated in it. He unstrapped the scabbard and handed it over to Dean, who took it tentatively in both his hands. Castiel waited patiently as Dean examined the scabbard and the weapons placed inside of it. The shorter knife of the two, the throwing knife, was set just above the longer one. He gestured for Dean to take it out, which he did.

Castiel watched as Dean explored the knife, eyes gliding from the leather straps on the grip across the metal of the blade to the tip. The blade widened out from where it started as a narrow strip at the hilt, expanding until it was over twice as broad, and it ended in a sharp point. Dean looked over at Castiel questioningly.

“It’s for throwing,” Castiel explained. “It was crafted for balance.”

Dean continued to pull the second knife out of its sheath as well. The hilt looked exactly to same, although this one had a crosspiece on it. The blade was completely straight, unlike the other one, and Castiel knew from experience that it was quite heavy. It was sharp on one side, but the other edge was thick and sturdy.

“That one is balanced for throwing, too,” Castiel explained, “although it’s strong and long enough to use it in a man-to-man swordfight. We call it a Saxe knife. Ironically, it’s originally a Skandian design.”

Dean looked impressed. The metal the weapons were made of had a faint blue-green glow to them. “It’s made of the finest steel in the world, a special kind only found in the mountains of Nihon-Ja.”

“Can you show me? How you fight with these, I mean?” Dean asked eagerly, eyes sparkling in the light that breached the trees. Castiel smiled softly.

“Not without an opponent,” he reasoned. “But I can show you how to throw it.”

He extended his hand and Dean gave the shorter knife back. It fell into his hand like it belonged there and Castiel weighed it for a second before he turned towards a nearby tree, aimed and swung it. The knife flew through the air with a low hissing sound and smacked into the tree trunk with a loud _thwack_. The hilt trembled a little but it stayed put, blade buried in the wood a few inches deep.

Dean looked even more impressed. Castiel had found that, despite his unhealthy appearance, he seemed to glow when he got excited about something. He knew it didn’t actually do anything to help Dean’s physical health – or lack thereof – but the glow of his skin and the sparkle in his eyes did make him look healthier. Happier. It made Castiel wonder how Dean had been before he’d been taken. He tried to picture Dean’s smile carving dimples into rounder, healthier cheeks, and freckles sprawled over sun-kissed skin, and blonde hair, made even lighter by frequent sun, that hangs in front of his eyes.

It made Castiel’s heart ache to think about what the Skandians had taken away from him.

He stepped forward to retrieve his knife from the tree and handed it back to Dean. “Throwing will take a lot of practice. How about I just show you some basic parries and thrusts for now?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

So Castiel did. And as it turned out, Dean was actually quite good. It was clear that he was a rookie but his movements and posture screamed of natural talent. It’s a shame, Castiel thought not for the first time, how much potential this boy has, and for him to have to live this way.

They only stopped when the sun threatened to disappear behind the horizon. Castiel took the dagger he’d taken from his room and handed it over to Dean, along with a simple leather strap to fasten it somewhere. Putting it on his belt would be unwise, as it would be on display for everyone to see since Dean didn’t own a cloak, so Castiel stripped the fabric of his trousers up and expertly tied it to his calf. His trousers were wide enough for the shape of it not to be visible.

“Do you think I’ll need it?” Dean asked. All Castiel could do was shrug, avoiding Dean’s eyes as he put his scabbard back on his belt.

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “I hope you won’t.”

Dean just nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

They made their way back out of the forest and onto the road that lead through Hallasholm to the Great Hall. As soon as they stepped foot into the village Dean retreated back into his place – and Castiel regarded that word with utter disgust – and started walking a few steps behind Castiel again, head bowed and shoulders hunched in.

When they walked back into the yard, a member of the Committee advanced at them immediately. Dean was forced to part from Castiel’s side. The Ranger barely managed to slip in a hushed “Be safe” before the boy was dragged off and he was left standing in the snow on his own. He watched Dean’s retreating back with a strange feeling in his belly.

 

****

 

It continued like that for a while. Castiel sneaked Dean out of the yard and away from his duties to teach him basic fighting skills and self-defence in the woods. Dean was surprisingly good with the knives, a natural agility and strategy to his movements as they danced around each other in a circle, both trying to disarm the other. Castiel still won more often than not – the one time Dean managed to get the better of him was a rare occasion and a matter of circumstance; a slippery batch of ice and Castiel losing his balance for a moment too long – but Dean was definitely improving. Not only in skill, but also in confidence. Castiel could see it in the way he moved, the complete calm concentration in his eyes, how he didn’t cower when Castiel advanced at him with a lethal weapon or when he extended a hand to him to help him out of the snow when he lost.

It was only in the little things, but to Castiel, they made all the difference in the world.

Their sneaking off and Castiel’s ‘thing’ that he needed help with was bound to draw some suspicion, even if they only did it rarely, with irregular intervals in between their training sessions. They got most of their practice in at night, in the stables, where they had only the light of the moon to see by, and an audience in the form of Grace who observed them with a kind of exasperated fondness that Castiel had never really spotted in her before.

Still, they started getting looks every time Castiel would come out into the yard when he wasn’t accompanied by either Charlie or a high-ranking Skandian. The Committee was getting suspicious, and in hindsight, Castiel felt like he should have done more to cover it up. Right now, he regretted taking Dean out in broad daylight, for everyone to see.

He’d been away with Charlie and Gundar the whole day – and the entirety of the _Wolfwill_ ’s crew – out on the Stormwhite Sea, looking for God-knows-what. For everything while knowing they would find nothing. It was better than sitting around, but it wasn’t better than spending time with Dean. So Castiel, while semi-satisfied from their day spent quasi-useful, was glad to have solid ground under his feet again and, after rushed goodbyes to the crew, quickly made his way back to the Great Hall. Or, more specifically, the yard. When he got there, however, he didn’t see Dean anywhere. He waved it off, told himself that he was probably out in the forest to collect firewood. But the members of the Committee looked angrier than usual and the other slaves seemed tense and on-edge, unlike the numb, unenergetic way they usually moved around in.

So Castiel sat at the side of the Great hall, sharpening his knives, and when he was done with that, continuing to work on Dean’s bow. In the time that passed since he sat down, the slaves that were out in the woods reappeared, sleds with trunks and branches heavy behind them, but Dean was not among them. When the sun went to sleep, disappearing behind the horizon and cloaking everything in a dark veil as she did so, Castiel stood, cleaned up his stuff and went into the stables. Grace greeted him with her usual soft whinny, and he knew she could sense that something was off. She gently pressed her nose against his arm and preened under his touch as he ran his hand through her manes. They were getting a bit long. He should groom them soon.

He stood like that for a long time, hand buried in Grace’s mane and running across her spine in an attempt to ground himself, before Dean finally entered the stables. Castiel could instantly see that something was wrong. He jumped at the squeak the door gave when he opened it, even though it had been doing that for longer than Castiel had been staying here, and he walked carefully, tensed, and if he was in pain.

“What happened?” Castiel frowned. His voice was rougher than he’d meant it to be – he still wasn’t too good at tip-toeing around Dean. He tried, but he was just not a soft-spoken person. He was rough around the edges, like the roses on a thorn.

Dean hung is head to avoid Castiel’s eyes. “Nothing,” he replied softly, with barely any volume behind it. “I’m fine.”

“It’s not nothing and you’re clearly not fine,” Castiel countered. He mentally scolded himself when Dean hunched in on himself more at his tone of voice. “Just- you know you don’t have to hide things from me, right? I know I’m a Ranger and that everything about… this… is scary but I’m your friend first, okay? You can tell me.”

Dean bit his lip and hung his head even lower, probably to hide the tears in his eyes, and he shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he insisted, but the watery, cracked tone of his voice took all credibility out of it.

Castiel sighed and tentatively took a step closer. Dean didn’t flinch but he did cower a little more. The Ranger pondered for a short moment but decided to take his chances and advanced more. He ignored the ache of sympathy in his heart as Dean took a few steps back and clearly tried his best to keep his tears at bay.

“I’m just worried,” Castiel whispered when he was only about two feet away from Dean. “Will you please let me in?”

He could see the moment Dean’s resolve cracked. He squeezed his eyes shut and nodded jerkily, gesturing behind him. “It’s- it’s not that big a deal. It just… hurts a little, is all.”

Castiel frowned and slowly walked around Dean, his movements slow and obvious so as to not startle him. The boy was trembling and his misery dripped off every soft corner of his being. Castiel sympathized, he did, but letting him retreat back into his shell was not going to help either of them.

The backside of the sweater Dean was wearing – which was made of dark-coloured wool – was darker than the rest of it, irregular patterns making the fabric darker than it actually was, as if it was wet.

A realization struck him, sudden and painful like a heavy blow to the gut, and now more than ever before he wished he could just scoop Dean up in his arms and take him back to Araluen.

“Dean,” he breathed heavily, “is that blood?”

Dean whimpered and while it wasn’t a real answer, Castiel knew it meant ‘yes’. His stomach lurched into his throat and he swallowed heavily.

“Okay. Okay. It’s okay,” he muttered, hands hovering over Dean’s back but he didn’t dare touch. “Fuck. Just- just stay here, okay? I’m going to get something to take care of that. I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t move around too much.”

Rushing back into the Great Hall, he made his way to his room and retrieved the basic first aid kit he kept with him at all times. It didn’t have much in it – just some bandages, a needle and threat to stitch bad wounds, and an ointment that soothed the pain and numbed the area it was applied on – but it was enough for most cases of emergency. He had the mind to grab a spare tunic for Dean, as well.

Castiel quickly made his way back outside, through the snow to the stables. Dean was still standing right where he left him, small and frightened with his feet buried in hay. Just like the day they had first met, Castiel thought bitterly.

He approached Dean carefully and the boy didn’t flinch or cower this time, just hung his head lower and continued trembling. The kit still clutched tightly in his hand, Castiel motioned to Dean’s shirt. “Can you take it off?” he asked softly. Dean nodded and his hands went to the rim of his woollen sweater, slowly pulling it up over his head. He winced in pain at every movement he made and sagged in tense relief afterwards. The wool of the sweater was drenched with blood in some places and Castiel could feel the warm wetness on his hand when he gently took it out of Dean’s grasp to discard it over the woodwork that separated Grace’s stable from the one next to it.

Dean’s back looked worse than Castiel had expected – and he hadn’t expected anything pretty. It hadn’t been hard to guess what had happened, especially considering the bloody scene he’d encountered a couple of weeks prior, but that didn’t make it any easier to see.

The skin of Dean’s back was completely torn apart. There were cuts running down his spine, deep gashes in the soft skin. Some were superficial, others jagged and deep and still seeping blood. There was barely a patch of skin Castiel could find that was not covered in either dry or fresh blood. Dirt and fibres of his sweater were embedded in the wounds and without proper care, they were bound to get infected.

“Oh my God,” Castiel breathed as he moved to stand in front of the boy. “Dean, what have they done to you?”

Dean whimpered and leaned forward, allowing Castiel to carefully wrap his arms around him as he sobbed into the Ranger’s shoulder. Castiel made shushing noises and held onto him tightly.

“It’s going to be okay,” he whispered, running a hand through Dean’s blonde hair. “I’ll take care of you.”

“It hurts,” Dean whispered back. Castiel held onto him a little tighter.

“I know,” he replied gently, “let me take a look at it. I’ll fix it.”

He guided Dean further back into the stables and helped him sit down without jarring his back too much. Grace took a place beside him, hovering nearby to provide comfort if necessary but staying out of the way. Dean was too absorbed in the pain to pay her any mind, his hands balled into fists and feet gritted together through his tears.

Castiel swiftly moved around him again to face his back once more. “It doesn’t look to good,” he admitted, hands ghosting along the deeper gashes. Blood trickled slowly down his back. “I think some of these are going to need stitches.”

Dean sucked in a harsh breath and Castiel placed a warm hand on his shoulder, squeezing ever so gently for comfort. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. I’ve done this before. It’ll feel better soon, I promise.”

As he screwed the lid of the wooden pot he kept the ointment in, he hoped he could keep that promise. The cream felt cold on his hand as he dipped his fingers in the substance. “This is going to sting a little bit,” he warned, “but it will feel better soon after.”

He gave Dean a few seconds to brace himself before he brought his fingers down onto the damaged skin. Dean flinched nonetheless and cried out in pain, tensing up as he squeezed his eyes shut. Castiel paused and withdrew his hand. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, massaging the skin where Dean’s shoulder met his neck. “It won’t take long, it’ll be over soon.”

Dean licked his lips to rid them of the tears and nodded. Castiel kept one hand on his shoulder – partially for comfort and partially to keep him still – and tried again. He generously applied the ointment to the deepest wounds – which were one nasty-looking vertical one that ran all the way from the base of his neck down to his hip, and one that ran horizontally across, from his right side up to his spine. His muscles tensed up with every touch Castiel delivered to his back, no matter how light and gentle he tried to keep them.

While he waited for the numbing effect of the salve to kick in, Castiel massaged most of the tension out of Dean’s shoulders. Grabbing the sewing essentials from the kit, he ran a hand up and down Dean’s arm to provide some much-needed comfort.

His fingers were slick with Dean’s blood and the needle kept slipping whenever he tried to grab a hold of it, but after a few tries he managed to slip the thread through the eye of the needle and tie the end in a tiny knot.

“This is going to be a little weird – you’ll feel kind of a pull but it shouldn’t hurt,” he warned Dean. The boy simply nodded and sniffled. So Castiel went to work.

It was a tricky job, stitching up Dean’s wounds. He had to pull the split skin back together with one hand and wield the needle with the other. It had to be done quite quickly, too, before the effect of the ointment wore off. Dean winced throughout, from time to time, but it was more from discomfort than from pain, Castiel could tell.

“You managing?” he asked nonetheless, and Dean responded with a watery laugh.

“Yeah,” he hiccupped. “Yeah, I’m okay. It- it doesn’t really hurt as much anymore.”

Castiel pulled a face. “It’s probably start acting up again soon. Tell me when that happens and I’ll give you some more salve for it.”

He cleaned the wounds with some freshly-fallen snow, which made Dean shiver in cold. “Sorry,” Castiel murmured, “just finishing up.”

Thankfully, the first aid kit contained a simple bandage too. Castiel took his time wrapping it around Dean’s torso, walking around the boy in slow circles. He made sure it was tight enough to help stem the bleeding, but not so tight that Dean would have trouble breathing. As soon as the bandage touched Dean’s skin, his blood coloured it crimson.

“Is it good like that?” Castiel asked once he’d fastened the loose end of the bandage. Dean nodded.

“Yeah, it’s fine. Thank you.” He turned around to face Castiel when he said the latter and the Ranger smiled as he tucked a stray strand of Dean’s hair behind his ear. It was getting quite long.

“I’m glad you came here. To me, I mean. Thank you for letting me help you,” he replied. The boy smiled shyly.

“I, um- I trust you,” he whispered. “When-whenever this – or something like this – happens, usually all I can think about is that I want to hide from everyone and curl up and wait until it doesn’t hurt anymore.” His voice was so soft Castiel had to strain to hear him. The words, whispered into the darkness that enveloped the stables, felt a lot like a confession. “But, um- but this time, all I- all I could think about was… was that I wanted to- to be here. With… with you. All I wanted was to be close to you.”

Castiel was left speechless. A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth and he gladly let it take him over. “I uh- I’m glad you did,” he replied lamely. The happy smile he gave him was overpowered by the pain and fatigue in his eyes, so Castiel got comfortable on a heap of hay and gestured for Dean to join him. He did, albeit slowly and carefully so as to not jar the wounds on his back, and he sank into Castiel eagerly. He fit perfectly, as if he belonged there. Castiel was starting to think that maybe he did.

 

****

A week later, Erak was constantly busy with the investigation. The scouts he had sent to the west when Castiel and Charlie had just arrived in Skandia – who Castiel had honestly completely forgotten about – had returned with unnerving news. There was indeed something of unrest developing in the west, but they couldn’t quite put their finger on what it was exactly and where it had started. So Erak was working on figuring that out and because he didn’t want to leave the capital city without its leader for a longer period of time, _especially_ now with the possibility of a rebellion starting up, he was sending off one of his loyal Jarls from a province in the east. The man’s name was Sten Hammerhead and Castiel completely understood why.

He was a tough man who carried a large war hammer with him at all times. It was a heavy tool made of wood with hardened steel to give it more strength, and it had sharp metal spikes on the sides of its head. Castiel could see why Erak picked him to investigate, though. He was smart, more intelligent that your regular Skandian, and by their communications Castiel could tell that he was more a friend to Erak than a subject.

So Sten went out and the Araluans were told, once again, to stay put.

“Yeh can leave, if yeh want,” Erak told them that day. “I mean, with this whole new thing on me hands, it don’ look like I’ll have ‘ny time fer that raid problem soon. I bet yeh got better things ter do back home.”

And, well. He wasn’t wrong. But they had to prioritize and King Duncan had the situation back home covered. And the paperwork that Castiel had waiting for him back in his cabin could wait. To him personally, Dean was a priority.

Charlie beat him to it, however. “Sorry, Erak, no can do,” she’d replied with a wink. “These two things may be connected. And we’re here now. We’re helping you out, whether you want to or not.”

Judging by the smile that he got, Erak wanted them to.

So they stayed, with their orders on hold and nothing concrete to do. Castiel was starting to not mind staying there. His muscle mass was larger than ever because of all the free time he had on his hands which he mostly spent working out and practising. And, well, of course, then there was Dean, who he tried to spend quite some time with too. That didn’t always work out, but they managed to get their hours in, whether it be at practice or in the stables.

Dean wasn’t a star at archery, they’d concluded. Castiel had finished making the recurve bow – it was shorter than his longbow and the edges curved back upwards instead of in a single line, so it took less power to pull the string back – and Dean had made progress but it just wasn’t his thing. He was extraordinary with the knives, however. Castiel didn’t want to say _just as good as me_ , but with practice, he could be. Maybe even better than him. Dean blushed when Castiel told him that but he did take the compliment with a flattered ‘thank you’.

He was still glowing when they met in the stables that night, so thrilled that he couldn’t sit down. He kept pacing around with a smile on his face and Castiel grinned fondly at him from where he was leaning against the back wall of the stable.

“Do you really think I could be as good as you? With the knives, I mean?” he asked excitedly. Castiel rolled his eyes with a smile.

“Yes, I do. If you practise long and hard enough, you can become really good,” he answered. “Better than me, even. I’m sure of it.”

Grace, who was standing a bit to the side watching Dean with a curious stare, now turned her head to Castiel. _You have a very big ego for someone who spends most his time procrastinating his paperwork_ , she said. Castiel glared at her.

“You’re a pain in the ass for a horse,” he grumbled. Dean looked up, surprised.

“What?” he asked. Castiel shook his head.

“Nothing,” he dismissed, “just Grace picking a fight with me. Ignore her.”

 _Don’t you dare ignore me,_ came her reply. Castiel ignored her. She breathed out loudly through her nose and shook her neck indignantly. Dean laughed and moved over to where she was standing, grabbing her face in both his hands.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I won’t ignore you,” he cooed, running his fingers through her mane. She let out a gleeful whinny and inched closer, nudging Dean’s head gently with her nose. He giggled as she nosed through his hair and grabbed a lock of it between her teeth, nibbling on it happily. Dean pushed gently at her chest to make her take a step back “Stop it,” he giggled.

Castiel’s smile slipped when the moment made a certain memory drift back up to the surface. The old hurt in his chest that usually accompanied it was there, too. He averted his gaze and bit his lip.

It didn’t take Grace long to catch on. She took a step away from Dean to gaze at Castiel long and hard. _You’re sad again,_ she concluded. Castiel rolled his eyes.

“I’m not _sad_ ,” he grunted. Dean looked up, one hand still on Grace’s neck, and eyed him curiously.

“I didn’t say you were,” he said hesitantly.

“Not you,” Castiel replied. “Grace.”

“Oh. Well, are you? Sad, I mean.”

“No,” Castiel said, a little more forcefully than he’d meant to. He sighed. “Sorry. I’m just- no, I’m not sad.”

 _Liar,_ Grace said.

“Okay,” Dean said. “I was just checking. ’Cause, you know, you two have this really strong bond, and she knows you well, so. Yeah.”

“It’s fine, Dean. She does, but she’s wrong about this one.”

 _No, I’m not._ Grace nudged Dean’s shoulder to give him a push in Castiel’s direction. Dean squinted at him.

“You’re lying,” he concluded. “Why are you lying? We promised to talk to each other about anything, right? I always tell you everything. I know I didn’t before but I do now. Can you please tell me?”

Castiel dared turn his head and Dean was looking at him with such an open and vulnerable expression that he felt his heart melt a little. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair so it was no longer hanging on his forehead. “I know. It has nothing to do with you, I promise. I just… remembered something. When I saw Grace biting at your hair. And it wasn’t a good memory.” He stepped forward to wrap Dean up in a hug. The boy’s arms folded around his waist instantly. That’s all. It’s in the past now, it’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“Okay,” Dean nodded, and he burrowed his face against Castiel’s neck. Not for the first time, Castiel noticed that Dean was actually taller than he was, if only by a few inches. It was barely noticeable because Dean always made himself look smaller than he actually was, harmless. He had a talent for folding himself up so he perfectly fit under Castiel’s chin.

“Can you tell me more about Grace?” Dean asked. He was trying to distract him and Castiel was grateful. “About the bond you have with her? I mean, you talk with her, right? I’ve never seen anyone do that with their horse before.”

Castiel smiled and rested his chin on the top of Dean’s head. “I do. She’s a very smart horse.”

“But you can _talk_ to her! Like, she can _say_ something and you understand what she’s saying and say something back and she _understands_ you! That’s incredible. Seriously, I’ve never seen that happen before. Ever.”

His breath was warm against Castiel’s neck and he suppressed a shiver. “It’s a Ranger thing,” he replied. He tended to say that a lot and he felt Dean move to object, but he beat the boy to it. “Ranger horses are bred for speed and stamina, as you know, but also for intelligence. She’s not just clever, she was trained and bred to think and communicate. I can talk to her because it’s important for the job. She’s saved my life before because of it so many times. She’s helped me save other people. And, you know, she’s pretty good company too, sometimes. She’s not just my horse, she’s my best friend. We need that kind of trust to do our job.”

He felt Dean smile against his neck. “You save people. I forget that, sometimes. I mean- I forget who you actually are. When we first met, it was all I could think about – you’re a Ranger, you seemed so dangerous and intimidating, and I’ve seen what you can do in the field and you’re definitely still dangerous but… you’re so nice, and caring and funny, and it just slips my mind sometimes. That you’re an actual Ranger. And you save people. That’s amazing.”

Blushing, Castiel shrugged, humbled. “I try to, at least. It doesn’t always work out, but the times that it does, it’s worth it.”

Dean sighed deeply; Castiel could feel his chest expand and compress against his own. “Your father must be so proud,” he whispered. “I know he didn’t approve of it at first but I can’t imagine someone having a son like you and not be proud.”

Under different circumstances, Castiel would have snorted and laughed, said that Dean was being dramatic and exaggerating. But now, the ache in his chest pulled tighter and soared through his heart, tearing open the wound that he thought had closed a long time ago.

“He’s not,” he answered curtly, letting go of Dean and taking a step away from him. He breathed in and out deeply a few times before he turned back to the boy. Dean was still standing in the same spot, arms stretched out a little in front of him.

“I’m… sorry?” he said. “I- I didn’t mean to-”

“No,” Castiel sighed, “it’s okay. It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Okay,” Dean said slowly. Castiel could tell by the tone of his voice that he didn’t believe it. “Either way, I’m sorry. You’re- you’re a great person. Even if your dad is a traditional man, I can’t think of a reason why he shouldn’t be proud of you.”

Castiel nodded without conviction and turned away, rubbing a hand over his face. “He’s, um. He’s not proud of me because- because he’s dead.”

He had his back turned to Dean so he couldn’t see the boy’s reaction, but he fell silent for a long, agonizing moment. Even Grace sensed the tension; she was restless but unusually quiet.

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered. Castiel shrugged, but as much as he tried to ignore the painful pull in his chest, he couldn’t.

“It’s okay, you didn’t know,” he replied, but even he himself could hear the subdued anguish in his voice. “It’s, erm- it was a few years ago…”

He trailed off and Dean stepped forward to tentatively lay a hand on his shoulder. Castiel put his own hand over Dean’s one and squeezed. “You don’t have to tell me,” Dean said quietly. Castiel considered it for a moment, then shook his head.

“No, I, um. I think you should know this. You deserve to know. And I trust you.” Dean got a small smile on his face.

“Are you sure?” he asked. Castiel nodded.

“Yeah, I’m sure. It’s about time I told someone about this, anyway,” he chuckled mirthlessly. Dean grimaced and gripped his shoulder a little tighter to show support. “I’d just finished my training, received the silver oakleaf just a few weeks back. The kingdom wasn’t doing very well, there was a lot of rivalry between the barons at that time, and their direct and loyal followers. There were a few that wanted more than they already had. More gold, more land, more power. It was a mess and the Ranger Corps was in charge of fixing it. That’s the sort of assignments we always get, so it wasn’t- it was big, and important, but it wasn’t supposed to be anything out of the ordinary. Not for us.

“One of the barons was more driven than all the others. He was one of King Duncan’s most trusted councilmen but he wanted more. He wanted to become king. But he knew that as long as the Ranger Corps was still standing, we would always fight for King Duncan. So, instead of going straight for the throne, he came after us first. Tried to stop us from intercepting his plans. And, well. We weren’t open for negotiating. Even if he’d been stupid enough to try and bribe us, it never would have worked, and he knew that. So, he went after us in a different way.” He closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath. “They came after our families.”

“I remember it was a weird situation. We only knew half the story then and the facts that we had just didn’t add up. But we figured it out eventually, and when the penny finally dropped, it was too late. I went back home as fast as I could to get my father and bring him to safety. We hadn’t parted on the best of terms and I was- I was so scared that our last words to each other were angry ones.

“But I was too late. He, um- the Baron’s men had gotten to him before I could.”

Dean’s breath hitched and his grip on Castiel’s shoulder tightened almost to the point of pain. “I’m sorry,” he breathed.

Castiel twisted his hands into fists, fingernails biting into his skin. “I didn’t even have time to mourn until the whole thing blew over. We captured the baron eventually, and most of his men. He was executed. I didn’t let myself feel anything until we’d wrapped the whole thing up. And when we did, I didn’t want to accept it. I’d let my father die. I was so angry. At myself, at that baron, at his men. At everything. And eventually, I um- I broke down. The realization finally struck me and I just. I remember leaning against Grace’s neck and bawling my eyes out.” He grimaced. “It was pretty ugly. And Grace, she, um- she nibbled on my hair. Just like she did with you just then. It was meant to be comforting. And I just- I remembered. When she did that with you.”

Castiel dared glance up into Dean’s eyes and suddenly his knees felt wobbly and his stomach twisted in knots. The boy’s gaze was nothing but kind and sympathetic but Castiel’s story hung heavy in the air and it was all too much for him. He was suffocating.

“I’m sorry, I should go. Thanks for listening. I’m sorry.”

He slipped out of Dean’s grasp and fled back into the Great Hall.

 


	7. Follow me down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel chuckled. “Alright, Plato. I’ll go with your view on it. It’s incredible to have so much faith in something you know so little about.”  
> Dean grinned at him. “See? It’s more wonderful this way.”  
> “I guess you’re right,” Castiel agreed. “You’re one of a kind, Dean. You really are.”

“You have issues,” was the first thing Dean said to Castiel when they ran into each other again. The Ranger raised an eyebrow and tried to be offended.

“Excuse me?” he said. Dean just rolled his eyes and brushed past him, shoulders bumping into each other on purpose. He was carrying a heavy bucket filled to the brim with water, arms bulging with the weight of it.

“You know exactly what I mean. You’re so closed-off, you never talk about yourself or your past, only the superficial information. And in the rare times when you do open up, you run as soon as you get the words out.”

Dean looked equal parts frustrated and worried and Castiel hated himself a little. “I know. It’s because, for such a long time, for _years,_ even, I’ve not allowed myself to feel anything. And now, since I got here – since I met _you_ – I’ve been feeling so many things. And to be honest, it scares me. It scares me what I feel about you.” He swallowed hard. “I’ve never told anyone what I told you last night. There’s some people that know, but they don’t know the details. I never wanted them to. But I did want you to know. I still do. I don’t regret telling you, I just- got overwhelmed, I guess. I’m s-”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence, instead finding himself forced into silence by the press of Dean’s lips on his. They were soft, albeit a bit chapped, and hesitant from inexperience and uncertainty. Dean’s hands tangled themselves in the hair on the back of Castiel’s head, their chests pressed against each other.

Castiel was shocked, to say the least. Over the past months, he and Dean had become friends. Great friends, even. But Castiel was no fool. He knew that part of the reason for their friendship was that Dean had no one else to go to, to talk to. Half the slaves here came from countries like Gallica and Arrida – neither of which spoke the Araluan language.

And yes, Castiel may have adopted feelings of a different nature for Dean, but he never thought the boy would reciprocate them. Dean had had too much to deal with, a life filled with fear and injustice to such an extent that there was no space left for anything else. Anything but the sadness and fear and subdued glee every now and then.

Castiel hadn’t thought that Dean was still capable of love. He knew that if he had lived the life that Dean had, he wouldn’t.

Yet here Dean was, one hand gently stroking the skin across Castiel’s collarbone, their lips sliding together in a paradoxically forceful kiss. Castiel kissed him back.

“Will you please _stop_ running away?” Dean panted in between kisses. In reply, Castiel held onto him tighter, kissed him a little harder.

A shout in a language that sounded like Gallic came from their right and they broke the kiss to anxiously seek its source. For a short, dreadful moment, Castiel thought they’d been caught, but there was no one in sight. They were at the far side of the Great Hall, hidden from view of the slaves in the yard.

When they turned their heads back to each other, Dean’s face displayed the emotions that Castiel always noticed in him: fear with an undertone of sadness. His one hand was still resting on Castiel’s cheek, the other now on his shoulder. He looked just as shocked as Castiel felt.

“I, um- wow,” he muttered, thumb tracing the line of Castiel’s lower lip.

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” the Ranger said. “That was… what was that?”

Dean blushed. “I, um. I’m not sure.”

“What do you want it to be?” Castiel asked. Dean’s mouth opened and closed a few times, lost for words. “Meet me at the stables tonight,” Castiel took pity on him. “I have something I want to show you.”

Dean nodded eagerly and Castiel tucked a stray lock of his hair behind his ear before he moved in to kiss Dean again. It was a brief one this time, not much more than a gentle peck, but it was soft and sweet and it made Dean smile that wide, glowing grin he loved so much.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he whispered into the almost non-existent space between them. Castiel returned the smile and kissed him once more before slipping away into the shadows.

“Cas?” Dean called after him. He stepped back into the light with one foot to show he was listening. “Try not to run away again.”

Castiel smiled. “I promise.”

The rest of the day went by agonizingly slowly and by the time the last remnants of sunlight had disappeared from the sky, Castiel was aching to go. Dean was waiting for him at the stables, as promised. He looked shy but happy as Castiel crowded into him a little closer than he usually would and placed his hands on the small of Dean’s back. He carefully watched Dean’s expression as he slowly moved in closer and let their lips meet in a short but sweet kiss.

“Is this okay?” Castiel asked, hands smoothing out the fabric of Dean’s shirt. The boy nodded.

“I’ve been waiting so long for you to do that,” he replied. Castiel wasn’t sure if he was talking to himself or not.

“You have?” he asked, surprised. Dean blushed deeply and looked away.

“What did you want to show me?”

Castiel smiled but shook his head. “I want to make sure I’m not crossing any boundaries. Are you really okay with this?”

Dean stilled and wrapped his fingers around Castiel’s wrist, thumb rubbing indistinct patterns into the skin there like Castiel had done with Dean many times before. “Yes. I’m really, very much okay with this.”

Castiel grinned, unable to keep his delight hidden. “Come on. Follow me.”

Dean looked confused and a little wary as he trailed after Castiel through the snow, out of the stockade in the direction of the woods. “Where are we going?”

“Oh, no. I’m not answering that. It’ll ruin the surprise.”

Dean grumbled but he followed Castiel without any further complaint as the Ranger led them across the narrow, overgrown paths through the woods, into and across the shooting range until they reached a rather spacious glade. A collection of rocks sat in the middle of it, the top of a large one flattened out by wind and rain. A woollen blanket was placed on top of it, held into place by rocks on each end. Castiel had taken some time out of his uneventful day to set this up.

The clearing was wide enough that their view of the sky wasn’t hindered by the tops of the trees at the edges, giving them a clear view of the vast darkness that stretched out above them.

“Did you do this?” Dean asked. Castiel raised his eyebrows, quasi-confused.

“No, I didn’t,” he replied. “Must have been some kind of forest spirit.”

That earned him a soft punch in his arm and an exasperated laugh. He liked making Dean laugh, liked listening to the sound of happiness as it poured out of Dean’s mouth in a lovely melody. “Seriously though. I love it. I can’t believe you’ve set all this up. Thank you.”

It was really just an old blanket draped over a fairly flat rock in the middle of the forest but Castiel didn’t have the heart to remind Dean of that. Not when the boy looked so positively thrilled. “Yeah, you better. I went through so much trouble for you,” he teased instead. “I dragged that heavy thing all the way up here, and I dusted all the snow off that rock. Then I spent the rest of the day praying that no more would fall.”

Dean laughed again. “Yeah, it’s a miracle that it didn’t.”

“Winter’s core should have passed by now,” Castiel thought out loud, glancing at the snow-covered trees surrounding them. “I’m guessing Skandian winters last longer than Araluan ones?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, I guess they do. The snow won’t start melting for a while, still.”

Castiel edged closer to the middle of the glade, pulling Dean along with him. “Well, then we’ll have to make the most of our snow-free spot while we can.” They sat down onto the blanket. It was cold, despite the lack of snow, and the thick wool didn’t really do much against the hardness of it, but it gave them a nice feeling nonetheless.

“Aren’t you scared we’ll get caught?” Dean asked. Castiel stretched out his arm, an invitation for Dean to scoot in close, which he did.

“Not really,” Castiel answered honestly. “I’m here with you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Dean nodded, satisfied, and snuggled in closer, nose pressed up against Castiel’s neck.

“Thank you. For doing this. Really,” he whispered. Castiel smiled and pressed a kiss to his hair.

“It’s no trouble.”

They lay like that, pressed up closely against one another as they watched the sky turn from navy blue increasingly darker until it was almost black. As the hours past and the temperature sank further and further, Castiel took out the thick cloaks he’d hidden behind the rock earlier that day; as they talked, about everything and nothing, little things and big thoughts, Dean’s voice got less shaky and more dreamy, like it always did when he felt at ease. The stars appeared on the vast emptiness above them, small beacons of light in a sea of darkness. Dean sighed heavily and Castiel could feel his chest contract and expand with the movement.

“What’s on your mind?” Castiel wondered. Dean shrugged as best as he could with the solid rock digging into his shoulder blades beneath him.

“I don’t know. It’s- it’s weird. And stupid.”

“I highly doubt that,” Castiel countered. “You can tell me.”

Dean sighed again, deep and heavy and so full of emotion that Dean could sense the deeply embedded hurt in it. “I was just thinking about home. Ever since- since you got here, I’ve… allowed myself to start thinking about it again. To start _hoping_ again. I didn’t realize that I’d given up all hope until you gave it back to me.”

“But it still hurts you. To think about home,” Castiel concluded. Dean nodded sadly.

“It’s not that I don’t believe you when you say you’ll take me back there. I trust you and I believe you. It’s just that – I don’t trust the Skandians. And I don’t trust myself. I want to believe that I’ll be back home sometime soon but I just- I’m still afraid that it won’t happen, and that I’d gotten my hopes up and I’ll be stuck here, again. But this time it’ll be worse because I actually thought I’d get to see my brother again.”

Castiel didn’t know what to say. “I _will_ take you back home, Dean. I promise.”

“I know,” Dean said. “It’s just not completely in yours hands.”

The silence of the forest fell over them, then, which meant rustling in the bushes and birds chirping some distance away. The gentle flow of the sea could be heard from there, too, along with the screeching of the seagulls.

“Stars are strange things, don’t you think?” Dean asked. Now it was Castiel’s turn to shrug.

“How do you mean?”

“They’re these specks of light in the dark night sky. And they’re beautiful, I’ve always loved watching them, but no one really knows what they are. Everyone fantasizes, makes things up, but no one _knows_.”

Castiel pondered. “There’s something beautiful about that, too, though, isn’t there? They can be whatever you want them to be, and no one can tell you you’re wrong.”

Dean fell silent for a few moments, as if he were thinking. “They’re the same stars,” he whispered after a while. “They the same stars as the once I always saw back home. I can see all the constellations. We’re so far away from home but they’re still the same stars, most of them.”

“Yeah. You see, home isn’t really that far away. It’s palpable. I can get you there. And I will,” Castiel replied.

“They use them to navigate, don’t they?” Dean said. He didn’t seem to have heard the Ranger. “The Skandians. They use the stars when they’re at sea to figure out which way to go. They don’t even need a map, just stars and  constellations. I saw them do it when they brought me here. It’s quite incredible. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like any of the damn things they do. It’s just fascinating, how they can do that. How they listen to the stars and follow where they tell them to.”

“They use the stars as their map,” Castiel said slowly. He’d seen how Gundar had done it. Just by gazing at the stars above, the skirl had known which way to sail in to reach Skandia at the exact point he wanted them to. It was quite an art, impressive to see. Castiel knew he wouldn’t have been able to do it. “They know which stars are where in the universe and they use that knowledge and some equipment to help guide them in the right direction. That’s quite an amazing science.”

Beside him, Dean huffed, punching him in the arm. “Fuck off with your damn science. It sounds so much more…” He twirled his hand in the air, searching for the right word, “magical, if you don’t go all rocket scientist on it.”

Castiel chuckled. “Alright, Plato. I’ll go with your view on it. It’s incredible to have so much faith in something you know so little about.”

Dean grinned at him. “See? It’s more wonderful this way.”

“I guess you’re right,” Castiel agreed. “You’re one of a kind, Dean. You really are.”

Dean blushed and a veil of silence draped over them, one that Dean was again the one to break after a while.

“Do you think that’s why the stars exist? For guidance? To help us get through the storm to the other side?” he wondered.

Castiel let his head loll to the side to watch Dean. The boy had a distant look on his face, like in his mind, he was somewhere far, far away. His green eyes sparkled in the pale moonlight, with that unrelenting shine of sadness embedded in them.

Castiel wanted to kiss him.

“Maybe,” he said instead, placing his hand under his head. “Maybe they’re there to guide you home.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, looking at the moon with a pained desire in his eyes, “home.”

Castiel moved in closer until their sides were pressed up against one another and Dean’s face was buried in the crook of his neck, like that was where he truly belonged.

“Home isn’t as far away as you think,” Castiel whispered into the silence of the night. Dean pressed a kiss to his skin in response.

As Dean dozed off to sleep, leaning heavily against him, Castiel lay awake and drew constellations in Dean’s freckles.

 

 

 

****

Days passed and Erak’s scouts returned. They looked tired, cut and bruised, but their fierce determination and loyalty shone right through the cracks. The Oberjarl called Castiel and Charlie into his office after hearing them.

“The leader o’ the rebellion’s a guy named Fergus MacLeod. Calls ‘imself Crowley. He’s the Jarl o’ one o’ the districts in the far west. Apparently, he don’ like me a whole lot. He’s tryin’ ter get e’ryone ter stand up against me so he can take over the country fer himself. An’ that ain’ no country yeh want ter live in, lemme tell yeh.”

Castiel nodded thoughtfully. “What can we do to stop him?”

“Honestly, I ain’ sure,” Erak said, a bit defeated. “I sent out some people ter assess the situation and ter get the Jarls that’re still loyal ter me ter do e’rythin’ they can ter help. I ain’ goin’ ter make this a war unless I absolutely have ter.”

“That’s noble,” Charlie mused, “but if there’s really a Jarl out there trying to overthrow you so he can take your place, I’m not sure if this is the right approach. You’ve said it yourself, he’s getting the people on his side. If you’re not going to fight him, you need to at least do something to keep the people on your side.”

“I’m listenin’,” Erak said.

“This Crowley must be doing something to appeal to them, promising them changes, maybe. In order to stop everyone from walking over to him, maybe you should give them some of the things he’s promising. If he’s saying he’ll lower taxes, for instance, maybe you should consider lowering taxes to keep them happy about the current government.”

Erak didn’t looked pleased with her proposal, but he was smart enough to realize that she was right. “Okay. I’ll send someone out ter find out what it is he’s doin’ an’ I’ll try an’ counter ‘em.

Erak dismissed them and Castiel went outside with the urgent need for fresh air. The yard was, as always, bustling with movement, mostly that of the slaves, and he went for his usual spot from where he always watched Dean, blending in with the dark brown wood of the Great Hall. It had been a few days since he’d had the time to sit outside, so also since he’d really talked to Dean.

There was a real threat now, a nobleman (if you could call any Skandian that) who knew how to run his mouth. He was out for power and he would stop at nothing to get it. That combination, Castiel knew from experience, was a dangerous one. This would be a tough opponent to stand up to. He just hoped that Erak would have it under control before it got really out of hand.

As he sank down onto his makeshift chair of chopped wooden logs, he spotted Dean almost instantly. But as soon as he did, he also noticed that something was off. It was subtle, something Castiel wouldn’t have detected had he not known Dean so well. But he did and it was blatantly obvious. It was visible in the way he moved, not much different than before but warily, more repressed somehow. Castiel looked closer and he saw that Dean’s fingers were tinted purple, not too visible yet but spreading gradually through the rest of his hands. His lips resembled a sickening shade of blue and Castiel realized with a shock that, even though things between him and Dean had gotten better – a _lot_ better – Dean’s living situation hadn’t changed at all. Maybe, from the looks of it, it’d even gotten worse.

Dean didn’t look good at all. Beside the unnatural colouring of his skin, he had large, dark circles under his eyes, his skin was dry and even peeling in some places and his hair lay on his neck and forehead listlessly. He didn’t see Castiel at first, and when he did, he took his time going over.

“Hey,” he greeted. His voice was croaky and sounded like it hurt him to talk. Castiel squinted at him thoughtfully.

“Hello, Dean,” he replied. “You managing?”

He’d grown accustomed to getting a nod in response to the question, lately sometimes even a wink to go along with it. But this time, Dean just shrugged and avoided Castiel’s eyes.

“Been better. Just a bad day,” he muttered. Castiel could tell he was trying to keep himself from trembling from the cold. Dean walked away, then, even though there were no Skandians or Committee members near them. Honestly, Castiel was a little offended. But mostly, he was worried. Dean was behaving unlike himself – or rather, more like his old self, the one Castiel had met in the beginning of his stay in this country, than he had in weeks.

It was still freezing – spring might have been on its way but it wasn’t quite there yet. The longer Castiel looked at Dean, the more concerned for him he got. Dean was malnourished and practically hypothermic and while this was a somewhat standard state for him to be in, it seemed to be worse today.

Castiel stayed there, hovering near Dean and hoping that his presence would bring the boy some silent comfort, but that didn’t seem to be the case. It was equally disappointing and concerning. He had to get Dean inside somehow, get him warmed up, some food in his stomach. But there was no way he’d be able to sneak him in without being noticed. Not with the dozens of high-ranking Skandians – Jarls from different districts, all loyal to Erak, had come together in Hallasholm for a council meeting to decide on what to do next. The last time Castiel had spoken to him, Erak had been talking of mobilizing an army – walking in and out of the Great Hall the entire day. And, no matter how fucked Dean’s situation was, he couldn’t damage Erak’s reputation more than it had already suffered. Not when the country was on the brink of a civil war.

A few metres to his right, rusty hinges creaked and the back door to the kitchen opened. Castiel moved his head to the side, slowly so the movement was barely noticeable, and saw a girl emerge from the opening. Albeit a bit on the skinny side, she was pretty, with blonde hair reaching just above her waistline and large, brown eyes. He’d seen her around the kitchen a couple of times but he’d never gotten to learn her name. She was always… _favoured_ by the Jarl from the district east of Hallasholm. Every time he saw the two of them disappearing off to the guest quarters of the Great Hall it made him lose his appetite.

He went rigid, then, frozen in his seating position. His neck was at quite an uncomfortable angle to hold for a longer time but he barely felt the dull ache starting up. That was it. That was his chance to help Dean, however temporarily. He could get Dean inside, in a soft bed by a warm fireplace, without raising suspicion. Maybe even get some food in his stomach. All he had to do was…

He got up, so abruptly that he startled one of the yard slaves, and strode over to the door. Dean didn’t look up when he entered but it didn’t matter. Hopefully, they’d be alone together soon enough.

Erak, for once, was not too busy to have him. He didn’t look up when Castiel entered but the Ranger was pleasantly surprised that he was let in at all.

“Afternoon,” he greeted. Erak just grunted and dipped his goose feather into the ink bottle. The parchment he was writing on made a crepitating sound when its point came down onto it.

“I have a request,” Castiel said. Erak looked up briefly and continued writing.

“An’ what’d that be?” he slurred. Castiel shuffled his feet awkwardly and thought of the best way to word this in his head.

“I’d like to request a personal slave.”

Well. That didn’t come out the way he’d intended it to. And judging by the raised eyebrow he got from Erak, it wasn’t received that way either.

“Why?”

Castiel shrugged half-heartedly. “It is estimated that I will be staying here for some time longer. Have been here for long enough already. I figured it would be a good way to relieve the stress, pass the time.”

Erak seemed to think it over for a while, but eventually he shook his head and went back to his parchment. “No,” he said simply, and Castiel didn’t understand.

“Why?” he echoed.

Erak put his goose feather down onto his desk and sighed. “Look, yer a great guy an’ all, an’ you and yer friend’ve been o’ great help, but yer not Skandians. This – what yer askin’, it’s a privilege reserved fer Skandians. Jarls an’ other important people. If I give an outsider – no offense – this too, more of my people’d start complainin’. And I can’ have that. ‘specially not now.”

Castiel nodded, but it was unconvinced. “I understand that, and I know that you can’t make an exception, but- please. If it can’t be for a longer time, then please, let me have one night.”

Erak’s other eyebrow now went up as well and Castiel swallowed. His gaze was piercing, almost painful, as if it burned right through your skin. Castiel didn’t waver as he stared back, shielding off all his emotions so his face was left blank but determined. It was something he’d perfected during his years as a Ranger, something necessary to be able to do his job. Eventually, Erak picked his feather back up and resumed his writing.

“Fine,” he said brusquely. “One night. Which one’d’yeh have in mind?”

“His name is Dean,” Castiel said immediately. He bit his tongue right after and scolded himself for his eagerness. “- or so I’ve been told. He works in the yard.”

Erak’s eyebrows came up again. It was a most impressive feat. “The yard? Why’d’yeh want one from there? They’re all worn-down. There’s plenty o’ pretty girls in the kitchen.”

Castiel didn’t let anything show. “Not everyone has the same taste, Oberjarl.”

Erak narrowed his eyes. “Is it the Araluan one?” When Castiel didn’t answer, he rolled his eyes. “Fine. Whatever. Yeh Rangers’re the strangest folks I’ve ever met,” he grumbled. “I’ll have someone get him and bring him to yer room.”

Castiel cleared his throat, hesitant to ask for more than he already had. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer it to be a different room, as I’m sharing my current one with Miss Bradbury.”

Erak nodded and waved him off. “A’ight. I’ll have the slave summoned and brought ter _a_ room, then my guy’ll show you where. Deal?”

“Deal,” Castiel agreed. “Thank you.”

“Out.”

“Okay.”

He exited the room and leaned against the door as it fell shut, taking a deep breath. It hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped, but better than he’d thought. Now, all that was left to do for him today was wait.

 

****

 

He was called into a room only a few doors down from his regular one not too much later. It was very similar to his own – plain wooden flooring, a simple bed with roughly the same covers as the ones he’d gotten used to, and a wooden table with two mismatched chairs. This was a single room, which meant that there was one bed instead of two and the space was more limited. There was still a fireplace, however, and the table was just as large as the one Charlie always wrote her letters on.

The only real difference between the two rooms was the slave kneeling at the end of the bed.

Dean had been stripped of his shirt, ugly markings and thick scars marring his back. His hands were tied together in front of him and even from where he was standing by the door, Castiel could see that he was trembling. Dean jumped at the sound of the door closing but he didn’t turn around, just made himself look smaller, hunching in on himself so much that he was almost doubled over.

Castiel stepped forward, the soft leather of his boots soundless against the wooden floor. Dean sensed his presence creeping up behind him nonetheless, without knowing who it really was; every muscle in his body was tense and alert and his eyes were squeezed shut. When Castiel put a hand on his shoulder he flinched and the Ranger squeezed gently.

“Dean, it’s me. It’s okay. Open your eyes,” he said. His voice was soft with a rough edge to it and blended in well with the crackling from the fireplace. Dean’s eyes opened and his head snapped around so fast Castiel was afraid it would give him whiplash. “Whoa, easy there. It’s okay.”

“Cas?” Dean whispered.

“Yeah. Here, let me get those ropes off of you.” He leaned forward and sank to one knee in front of Dean, slowly pulling out his throwing knife and cutting through the restraints. The rope fell to the floor with a soft _thud_ and Dean mindlessly rubbed at his wrists where it had damaged his skin.

“I’m- what- why am I here? Why are _you_ here? What’s going on?” Dean’s voice was small and unsure and sounded as fragile as he looked and Castiel wanted nothing more than to wrap him up in a dozen blankets and never let him go.

“I found a way to get you inside. Legally. Just for tonight,” he answered, reaching out to help the boy up. Even when Dean was back onto his feet, he didn’t let go of Castiel’s arm.

“You did what now?” Dean asked. Castiel grinned.

“You’re sleeping in a real bed tonight.”

The returning smile Dean sent him was brighter than the sun and it warmed him more than a fire ever could.

“Let’s get you warm first,” Castiel proposed. He gave Dean his spare tunic – in lack of something else to lend him – and stripped the bed of one of its blankets. Wrapping it around Dean’s shoulders, he placed the boy in a chair in front of the fireplace. Some boiling water and coffee beans later, they both had a mug of steaming, fresh coffee clasped within their fingers. The bowl of fruit that was present in every occupied room was sat in Dean’s lap, already half empty. Castiel watched from the side, endeared, as Dean dug into yet another apple.

“I don’t think I’ve been this warm in years,” Dean said, half to Castiel, half to himself. The Ranger smiled sadly.

“Hopefully, you’ll be warm like this every day very soon,” he replied. Dean took another bite.

“Yeah. Hopefully,” he mumbled around a mouthful. He swallowed. “Hey, do you mind if we, um- if I go lie on the bed? I- I kind of really want to try it.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Dean blushed. “Will, um- God, I feel silly asking this, but… will- will you join me?”

Castiel looked at him, surprised, with the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Sure. Yeah.”

The blankets here were softer and thicker than any blanket Castiel had ever had, or needed, in Araluen. He’d gotten used to them over the months he’d spent in Skandia, but it still felt incredibly nice when he slid under them and got comfortable. Dean climbed in a lot more apprehensively, looking insecure and uncertain, and Castiel simply watched and attempted to stay on the safe side of staring.

Dean sighed sadly, wistfully, as he burrowed himself under the covers, a warm blush spreading over his otherwise pale face. He smiled shyly at Castiel, who smiled back at him with warmth and tenderness.

Castiel scooted closer after they’d laid there for a while, gently wrapping an arm around Dean’s waist and pulling him in so they were spooning, Castiel’s nose pressed up against Dean’s neck. “What’s wrong?” the older man asked. “You were acting a bit off today. Are you all right?”

Dean shrugged the best he could in their position. “Like I said. Just a bad day. It’ll pass.”

Castiel clacked his tongue, disapproving. “Sure, it will. But that doesn’t mean you have to go through it alone.”

Dean’s expression changed from carefully blank to troubled. His eyes filled with tears but Castiel didn’t believe it was because he was pushing him. “I, um-” he started, “it’s nothing. Not that big. It’s just… I just miss Sammy.”

He cracked, seemingly out of nowhere, twisting around in Castiel’s arms so he could bury his face in the older man’s chest. He didn’t make a sound but his shoulders shook violently and his breathing came in hitches. Castiel was too stunned to react for a few moments, but he snapped out of it and wrapped his arms around Dean more protectively, stroking the hair on the back of his head. He whispered comfort and sweet nothings into the air between them and simply held the boy as silent sobs wracked his body.

It took Dean a while to calm down, and by the time the sun was going under he was merely trembling a little with tear tracks drying on his face. Castiel was still running his hand through his hair, the other hand resting on the small of his back. “Feeling better?” he inquired. Dean sniffled a little but nodded.

“Yeah, I guess I kinda do.” A pause. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Care to tell me what that was all about?”

Dean bit his lip, head still resting on the spot where Castiel’s shoulder met his neck. He remained silent for a long time. He did that a lot, Castiel had noticed. The thing about Dean was that he existed in silence. Even if the world around him was full of noise, it was barren and empty. And Dean – Dean was full of colour, a delicate rose that broke through the everlasting snow. He was the warmth of the sun on a cold winter’s day, a gentle breeze in the heat of summer. He was the green of the grass and the blue of the sky and everything in between. He had emeralds for eyes and silk for skin. But the void of this country had killed that in him, it had taken his colour and his noise until all that was left of him was the grey.

Castiel swore that he would restore Dean. He would give him back his colours, paint him like a canvas, and he would be his voice until he found his own again.

“I had a dream last night. It was a memory, actually. And it just made me miss home really much. I’ve been missing it already, lately, but it just got that much worse and I guess- I guess I don’t know how to handle that anymore. Missing something. Feeling something.”

Castiel repositioned so his chin was resting on the top of Dean’s head. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I also realized that I haven’t told you anything about my family. Not really. Just the small things, the easy things. You’ve told me your entire tragic backstory.”

“Just because I tend to overshare on my personal life doesn’t mean you have to, too,” Castiel teased. “Tell me only if you want to.”

“I want to,” Dean insisted. “You know some things already, right? I told you about Benny and Jo and Sam.”

“You did. Your friends and brother,” Castiel remembered. “What are they like?”

“They were amazing. Jo was my age, and Benny was a little older. They were both witty and quick-mouthed. Never got along really well. I always suspected that they only hung out together because I was friends with both of them. Sammy was a whole different story. He was always more of a quiet kid. Loved to read those stories about brave knights saving damsels in distress. They made him want to become one himself. A knight. And he was pretty good, too. We used to practise together, with these wooden training swords that my dad made. He won every time. I let him win sometimes, but he was real’ good. He always dreamt of going to Battleschool, in the fief’s castle. My dad would rather he stay at home and help out at the smithy. He was a blacksmith, did I tell you that? Good at his job, too. He always made the best gear. All the farmers came to us with their horses. Even some of the Baron’s knights, too.

“I always loved working at the smithy, helping dad with the horses and carrying armoury around. It made me feel big and important, in that silly way kids do. Sammy never liked it much, though. He had so much more potential. Mom wanted Sam to pursue his dreams, for the both of us to be happy. Dad never dared argue with her. But then- then there was the fire.”

Castiel tightened his grip on Dean and kissed his forehead, offering silent comfort. Dean snuggled closer.

“It started in the middle of the night, out of nowhere. I still don’t know what happened, but… I dragged Sam out of the house. Dad made it out too, but when he saw that mom hadn’t, he wanted to go back in, but the- the building collapsed before he could.” He swallowed. “She didn’t make it.

“A lot changed, then. We rebuilt our house from scratch but it wasn’t the same anymore. We never had flowers on the table. My dad never bothered to pick them. I tried to keep it up for a while, but they always ended up in my bedroom because they reminded dad of her and he’d get so… mad. And sad. He started drinking a lot. Beer, and wine. Anything he could get his hands on.

“We sort of became the freaks of the town then, me and Sam. The motherless kids with the deadbeat dad. School had always been a drag but now it was just plain awful. Kids were always picking on us. I had Benny, though. He always stood up for me when things got a little rough, like I stood up for Sammy. I’d kind of expected him to leave, but we only got closer. He never let me down.”

“He sounds like a great guy,” Castiel said. His voice cracked a little from misuse and the failed attempt at a whisper. Dean grinned watery.

“He really was. And so was Jo. Her mom, Ellen, owned the tavern, and she sort of adopted us. Took us under her wing when dad failed to do so. Her husband Bobby was great, too. He was a close friend of my dad’s but he was never afraid to stand up to him. As one of the few people in the entire town, actually. Ellen, too. Dad and Sam started fighting a lot now that mom wasn’t there to stand in between them. He was very adamant about Sam staying to work at the smithy, but Sam didn’t want to. I only learned later that my dad didn’t want Sammy to be a knight so desperately because he used to be one himself. He got injured pretty badly on the battlefield. Made a recovery but not fully. His leg never really got better. He had a limp from then on, and it would hurt if he put too much pressure on it for too long. That’s part of the reason why he let me help so much. Because he couldn’t do it alone. And I understood him, then. But I knew that Sammy would be so unhappy if he stayed.

“Bobby and Ellen knew that too, I guess, so they offered him a job at the tavern so he could save up some money to get away. They wanted to do that for me too but I liked it there, despite my dad. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay.”

His voice wavered and Castiel shushed him. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

“I hope Sammy made it out,” Dean whispered. “He should be old enough by now.”

Castiel could do nothing but hold him tight and kiss his skin until, hopefully, he stopped hurting. “I hope so, too.”

Silence filled the room. The crackling of the fire had subdued to a soft rustling in the background and the room was isolated enough that no sounds from outside came in. It was a good kind of silence, one that carried pain and tears but also hope and closure. It was a gentle silence. Gentle as Dean.

“Will you stay?”

The question came as a bit of a surprise and it took Castiel’s mind a few moments to process. “Of course,” he replied, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“No, I mean- after you get me back to Araluen. Will you stay with me?” Dean sounded so small but there was something new in his voice too, something Castiel hadn’t heard from him a lot before. Hope, and confidence. Faith. “I wanted to stay. I didn’t want to leave but they took me anyway. Home hasn’t felt like home in a long time. It became just a memory, something I could never have again. But then you came, and for some reason you saw something in me that was worth it. You made me believe again. You became my home. I don’t want to go back unless you’re with me. I don’t want to leave home again.”

Another silence, this one loaded with that same hope, but also anxiety and _love_.

“You won’t ever have to leave home again,” Castiel promised. “I’ll stay.”

 

****

 

The days that followed turned out to be the perfect example of Castiel’s natural heritage of bad luck. Charlie would scold him for even thinking of it, but he couldn’t help but believe that at least part of it was true; Lady Luck had never been on his side, and while his trip to Skandia had definitely not been without fortune, he couldn’t really say that it had been great, either.

Erak’s scouts had returned from enemy territory – barely. One of them died from his injuries shortly after he was taken to the healer and the other one was still resting. Castiel hadn’t spoken to them but he’d gotten the gist of what had happened – enemy territory was closer than they’d thought and the threat was getting real. Crowley had mobilized an army – mostly skirls and fishermen and farmers, but every Skandian, even the common workers, knew how to handle a weapon, whether it was a simple short sword or a heavy battle axe.

And Castiel knew that he didn’t have a part in this, but the annoyance was still set deeply in his gut – nothing good ever lasted for him. He was determined to see that this time, it did.

Erak was already planning for battle. A siege for Hallasholm had found place years before, when they’d been invaded by the clans living east, and the Skandians had won thanks to the strategic insight of two Rangers that had been present. Apparently, Erak thought that they now stood a chance, too, because Castiel was with him. Personally, Castiel wasn’t too sure about that – he’d never been one for optimism – but he refused to sit by idly and watch things unfold any longer.

So the Oberjarl had sent him and Charlie on a mission, accompanied by a handful of Skandian soldiers including Gundar and Svengal, to investigate Hallasholm’s surrounding areas for a place fit for either battle or retreat. Grace was delighted that she was finally let out of the stable for some real work and Castiel was bitter that he hadn’t had the chance to say something to Dean before he was sent off at the break of dawn – early enough that people wouldn’t notice and thus wouldn’t start asking questions. Erak wanted to keep them in the dark for as long as possible to prevent a panic.

They found a spot, only a few miles outside of the city – the path through the forest narrowed considerably before ending into a clearing large enough to hold at least part of an army. It was easily defendable, surrounded completely by steep ridges and trees upon them. This was on the east side of the city, however, so taking their stance here would mean giving up the city. Not to mention that the ground was still covered with snow, which, pressed together by dozens of feet walking over it, would turn slippery and dangerous.

“Even if it’s perfect, it’s still not ideal,” Charlie muttered, annoyed. They’d been riding in circles around the city for over a day and they found no grounds on the east side of Hallasholm that would give them an advantage to Crowley’s army. It had been a relatively long time since Castiel had slept in a tent outside – and his back was protesting accordingly – but they’d decided that riding back to Hallasholm for a few hours of sleep and then ride those extra miles back the next morning was a waste of precious time. As a result, everyone was stiff and cranky and the situation seemed worse with every passing minute. “Honestly, it’s looking pretty hopeless. I think Erak should cut his losses, gather those that are still loyal to him and make his escape so he can come back and fight another day. He’s never going to win with what he’s got now. If we get on a ship, we can go back to Araluen, ask King Duncan for help. We can come back with more soldiers.”

It was true; Castiel knew that numbers weren’t conclusive when fighting a war – he’d seen and won his fair share of battles that he’d started with a disadvantage – but as greatly outnumbered as they were, there wasn’t much room for argument. Gundar, who was jogging beside them at the same steady pace as his horse, snorted. “There ain’ no way Erak’s goin’ ter do that,” he said. “He ain’ goin’ down without a fight.”

“A fight at this point is stupid and pointless. He won’t win. It would be smartest now to retreat, seek shelter, and live to fight another day. He’s no good to anyone dead,” Charlie argued.

Svengal hummed thoughtfully. “Yeh know, me aunt Shelley always said that the smart thing ter do ain’ always the right thing,” he said matter-of-factly. “Erak’s stubborn as a mule. If he runs now, he’ll jus’ be givin’ Crowley what he wants.”

Gundar side-eyed him suspiciously. “You don’ have an aunt.”

Svengal pretended to be very surprised by that fact. He wasn’t a good actor. “Sure I do. But that ain’ the point. Erak ain’ just goin’ ter give up. That Crowley’s goin’ ter have ter kill ‘im ter take his title.”

“Oh trust me, he will,” Charlie sighed. Svengal shrugged, but he didn’t look happy with that prospect.

“Well, then at least he’ll die a warrior’s death. That’s somethin’ ter be proud o’.”

Charlie and Castiel exchanged glances. “We’d better find a way to retreat or this will end in a bloodbath.”

They ended up finding something on day three; a narrow, quite well-hidden path that swirled through the forest into the mountains. It was concealed by the trees and large rocks, so moving up it in small parties would go largely unseen. Larger groups, like an army, might be a bigger problem. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Charlie said when Castiel voiced this concern. “We’ll try and convince Erak to get out while he can and evacuate the Jarls that are still loyal to him. I don’t think Crowley will harm the common people. He needs them on his side.”

Castiel pressed his lips together. “You talk like we’ve already lost. Crowley isn’t here yet, we still have a chance. And he doesn’t need all the commoners – if he’s smart, he’ll eliminate any and all threat to his reign, especially if he didn’t gain the title the traditional way.”

Charlie squinted at him. “So what do you propose we do?”

“We follow this path for a while to see if it leads to a place where we can stay and hide for a while. Then we take what we have to the Oberjarl and let him decide for himself. It’s his country, after all. And Crowley may not even show up anytime soon.”

“So, what, do you _want_ a war to break out or something?” Charlie asked, exasperated. “Even if every able-bodied person in Hallasholm were to fight, we’d still be badly outnumbered.”

“Don’t you think it’s worth fighting for?” Castiel asked in return. Charlie opened her mouth, ready to reply, but swallowed her words and nodded curtly.

“Fine. Okay. We map out all our options and take it to Erak. We follow his lead, even if it’s a stupid decision made out of stubbornness instead of strategy. This is going to end in disaster.”

“You’re the one who’s always telling me to honour their culture,” Castiel teased. Charlie shoved him in the arm, but because they were seated on their horses and about a meter apart, she almost knocked herself out of the saddle. “Let’s go. We’re wasting daylight.”

They sent Svengal and Gundar back for another trek around the city while they followed the path into the mountains. As it got steeper and more rocky, they had to dismount and carefully lead their horses through the treacherous path with loose stones.

But it paid off. The narrow, curving path split, with one side continuing on along the Hallasholm-side of the mountain, and the other one lead further into the mountain chain. They split up – Charlie continued on while Castiel went the other way. His path got more narrow and difficult to follow and though Castiel had never really had a problem with cramped spaces, the way the continuously higher-reaching mountains seemed to close in on him made him feel a little claustrophobic.

He had to leave Grace behind when the path got too slim for her to fit, and with a lot of climbing and scrambling he made his way across large boulders and through narrowing passages. It was hard and tiring and required a lot of focus and energy, but when he looked up at one point, he saw the tops of the next mountains, one on either side, looming ominously above. More peaks were visible when he peered up, gloomy and pale in the distance. The path dragged on like that, further than Castiel could see, and he smiled at the realization of his discovery.

He’d found a pass through the mountains.

The sun was setting when he met Charlie back at the point where they’d parted and they decided to go back to Hallasholm – Erak had pressed their quick return, as he wanted to prepare for the worst-case scenario the best he could.

As darkness settled, they retreated into one of the caves they found for the night, huddled together around a small fire, and continued their way back down in the morning. They met up with Gundar and Svengal about two miles away from the city and continued the trip back together. Castiel was impressed with the Skandians’ stamina; they trotted along with the pace of the horses while barely breaking a sweat.

Hallasholm looked exactly the way they left it. Castiel hadn’t exactly expected it to be different but it felt kind of strange to return here after over three days with such a significant feeling of pending doom hanging over them.

Charlie decided to talk to the Oberjarl about their discoveries – she was a lot better with words than Castiel was, and he suspected she wanted to try and persuade him to take off anyway – so Castiel had some time for himself. He used it to take Grace back into her stable and give her a thorough once-over with a brush and a towel. By the time he was done, she was completely dirt-free and her coat shone in the pale sunlight.

When he was finishing up, his fingers tangled in her mane as he gently undid the knots in them, he caught a glimpse of movement outside and saw a familiar mop of hair above a tunic that was definitely one of his own. A smile tugged the corners of his mouth up and he patted Grace on the neck a few times before exiting the stables. The snow crunched under his soft leather boots, leaving a trail of footprints as he walked up to the boy. He tried to think of something witty to say, something that would make that beautiful laugh come out of Dean’s mouth again, but nothing came to mind. So he just hovered awkwardly for a few seconds, a little surprised that Dean hadn’t yet sensed nor heard his presence, and hummed his usual, “Hello, Dean.”

The boy startled at being addressed, twisting around sharply to face him, and Castiel’s smile fell as soon as he laid eyes on Dean’s face. The vibrant green of his eyes had faded to a dull laurel and the skin around it was bruised a dark purple from exhaustion. He looked worse than he ever had, bony and trembling as his eyes swept over Castiel’s face without a single sign of recognition. He didn’t say anything, just stared at Castiel with a mixture of curiosity and fear, and Castiel’s stomach churned. “Dean?” he asked, reaching out a hand to the boy’s shoulder. Dean flinched back sharply, stumbling over his own feet in a way he hadn’t in months.

“Are you okay?” Castiel wondered, raising his hands to show he meant no harm. “I won’t hurt you. It’s just me. What’s going on?”

Dean looked more and more anxious with every passing second and Castiel could do nothing but stare at him in anxious confusion until the crack of a whip tore them both out of it. Dean rushed to get back to work and Castiel glared at the member of the Committee that had interrupted them. That didn’t gain him anything, of course, so he did the only thing he could think of doing – he went to the Oberjarl’s office.

Erak was standing at his desk, alone, bent over a map of the area with scribbles all over it. He looked tired and a little desperate, but Castiel didn’t notice any of that.

“What the fuck is going on with Dean?” he demanded, halting a few feet away from the desk. Erak raised an eyebrow.

“Tell me somethin’. Would yeh barge into yer own king’s quarters like that?” he asked. Castiel narrowed his eyes at him.

“That’s not the point. I want to know what’s going on with him. He isn’t acting like himself. I’m away for three days and something’s already gone wrong. Tell me what it is.”

“Yer actin’ like a soldier that came home from war ter a dead wife,” Erak grunted. “How many times do I have ter tell yeh, he’s jus’ a slave.”

“He’s from _Araluen_ ,” Castiel hissed. “He was never supposed to be a slave. You said you would do something about this.”

“I said I’d try,” Erak growled. “I got more important stuff on me hands, if yeh haven’t noticed.”

Castiel clenched his hands to fists and looked away. “I know that. And I will do everything in my power to help you. But you shouldn’t forget the reason why I came here in the first place.”

They shared eye contact for a few agonizing moments. Multiple emotions crossed over Erak’s face before he eventually settled on tired. “I’ll see what I can find out fer yeh. I need a break anyway.”

Castiel nodded. “Thank you. I can look over some battle strategies if you want to. See if I can give us a better fighting chance.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Erak grumbled. Castiel half-bowed respectfully and turned to exit the room. When he was almost at the door, Erak’s voice stopped him. “Hey, Castiel?”

The Ranger looked over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“I really am sorry. That this happened. An’ after all this crap’s blown over, I’ll make sure ter fix it.”


	8. Waiting for a friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was panting, legs still a little unstable, as he pulled his knife out of the dead man’s chest. Gingerly looking around, he tried to spot Charlie, but it was of no use. More Skandians came pouring in from all directions, and Castiel did his best to block any weapons swung at him as he simultaneously tried to make his way farther down the road. There were too many of them, however, and he grunted in pain when a sword caught him in the side. It bit right through the soft leather and wool of his tunic and slashed at his skin, drawing blood immediately. Without looking, he knew it was deep. The man who did it to him earned himself a knife in the throat.
> 
> With one hand clasped against the wound – awkwardly as he was still holding his knife with it – he staggered through the clashing people, dodging and blocking where he could and attacking where he had to. By far not all the Skandians were professional warriors, but that didn’t really make a lot of difference – there were too many of them, and they were all far bigger than he is. They got the better of him by sheer, blunt power.

The people of Hallasholm were anything but hospitable, Castiel had noticed. That much had become clear in their first week in Skandia alone, but it hadn’t changed over time, not even when they got more used to the Ranger roaming the streets. While their original hostility had faded to a vaguely annoyed disinterest, they’d never grown friendly toward him and in turn, he’d tried to avoid confrontation with them as much as he could.

There was a commotion that day, however, and Castiel had no choice but to investigate. A sense of unrest hung in the air. People got into fistfights and there were small fires across town. It left Castiel puzzled and a little anxious. Rebellion was coming. And not all of the people would be on Erak’s side.

Slamming an uprising down with violence would only fuel it, but it was too late now for a diplomatic solution. So they did nothing. They waited it out. And in hindsight, Castiel thought that was probably the stupidest thing they could have done.

The city stayed like that the entire day; tense, on edge. People were yelling slurs all across town, either pro or con the current Oberjarl, and there were fight between the two groups. A lot of people went on with their daily routine as if nothing was going on. Hallasholm was not a nice place to be in that moment, if it had ever been. So Castiel remained inside the Great Hall for the rest of it, cooped up in his room with Charlie. There had still been no response to their letter to King Duncan. No indication that it had even arrived.

“Maybe it hasn’t yet,” Charlie reasoned. “It takes weeks to cross the Stormwhite Sea, and then it has to get to the King, still, which could take a couple of days too. There’s no need in dwelling on it.”

She was right, and he knew that, but he couldn’t help but think that it might be too late. Erak hadn’t gotten back to him about Dean yet so he was grumpy and worried and stressed and being locked in a room because the stupid people in this stupid country were throwing a tantrum didn’t help with that.

He must have dozed off somewhere in the evening because he was woken up by Charlie frantically shaking his arm. The sky was dark but an eerie light was cast inside through the window. He grumbled and pushed himself up. “What?” he growled. Charlie raised a finger to her lips and handed him his cloak. Castiel only now noticed that she was already fully dressed, woollen leggings under her dress and her dark brown cape slung over her shoulders. He frowned but did as she was wordlessly telling him, fastening his weapon belt around his waist before he put on his cape and secured it in a messy knot.

There were noises on the other side of the door but he couldn’t quite make out what they were and Charlie being on edge like that made him nervous. She was always calm. “What’s going on?” he whispered. She just shook her head.

“If I get back home, I’m going to kill King Duncan.”

Castiel frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Get your stuff. We’re leaving. I don’t care what the Oberjarl says.”

Pushing himself up, he let the covers slide away from his chest. “You’re not making any sense.”

“The rebellion. The uprising that Crowley is leading. It’s here. They’re in the city. They just got through the stockade. Hallasholm has fallen. We have to leave while we still can. Now get up, get dressed, and grab your stuff, damn it!”

He eyed her for a moment but did as she said, stuffing his personal belongings in his duffel bag and slinging his bow and quiver onto his back. Charlie nodded to the weapon. “You might want to keep that out.”

Eyeing the dagger that she held ready in her hand, he took his bow in his hand and slid an arrow out of his quiver, nocking it but not pulling it back yet. Charlie walked over to the door and as she opened it, Castiel pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, hiding his face within its shadows. There was no one in the corridors, but even from this far away, they still heard the screams and clangs from outside.

“This is not good,” Castiel rasped when he saw a battle axe embedded in the wall only a few meters ahead of them. Charlie had a grim expression on her face.

Castiel should probably feel guilty that his first thought was ‘Dean’, but he didn’t. They rushed through the corridors to the front of the building, but before they could reach it, a large Skandian blocked their way. He was carrying a longsword and his horned helmet stood crooked on his head. Without thinking about it, Castiel pulled back the arrow, aimed and released within a second. It hissed as it flew through the air and pierced him right through the heart. The man tried to take one more step, but he sank down to his knees before falling down completely. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Charlie looked at him, impressed. “Quick thinking. Now, the Oberjarl is probably outside, mixed in the fight like the Skandian he is.” She sighed. “These people wear me out sometimes.”

Castiel walked over to the dead Skandian and pulled the arrow out of his chest. Pulling a face, he wiped the blood on the guy’s clothes. “You can say what you want about them, but they are fearless.”

“There’s a thin line between being fearless and being stupid,” Charlie said.

“As there is a thin line between being smart and being a coward,” Castiel retorted. She glared at him.

Nocking the now semi-clean arrow, Castiel pushed open the door with this shoulder and stepped outside. His foot sank down into the snow a little and a rush of cold wind scourged his face. The yard was filled with people running around, but there was an eerie difference from the regular activity. People were screaming, yelling, crying; running in panic instead of rushing to get their work done. The snow was stained red with blood.

Charlie grabbed his arm and started pulling him towards the opening in the stockade, trying to avoid the rebellions, but Castiel wriggled out of her grip. “I have to go get Dean,” he said.

Charlie looked at him, exasperated. “There’s no time. There’s too many of them, they’ll take the whole city soon. We have to leave while we still can.”

“I’m not leaving him behind,” Castiel argued. Charlie eyed him for a moment, but she sighed and gave in.

“Fine. But we have to be quick.”

They rushed around the Great Hall, sticking close to its walls. Castiel knew he was practically invisible, wrapped up in his cloak and hidden by the darkness, but the same couldn’t be said for Charlie, who, in her white dress, didn’t blend in quite as well. He had to use three arrows which he, because of the chaos, couldn’t retrieve. And as they rounded the corner, he couldn’t help but think that it had been for nothing.

The slaves’ barracks were ablaze, flames roaring as they reached up to the sky. Sparks danced in the air likes stars and fell to the ground like dark snow. A layer of soot-black ash was already forming, in sharp context to the pure white snow. People paced though the space around the barracks, some yelling triumphantly, others crying. It wasn’t hard at all to tell the slaves from the Skandians – all of the latter members of the rebellion, without a doubt. It was, however, impossible to distinguish Dean from all the other skinny, trembling bodies that lay scattered across the yard, some covered in ash, others in crimson blood. Castiel felt bile rise up in the back of his throat.

Charlie tugged at his sleeve. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. He could only barely hear her over the noise of the scene, but her words felt like a stab in the heart. “We have to go.”

“I won’t leave him,” Castiel said. Desperation was clawing at him like a beast in distress, pressing harshly against his ribcage and scratching at his lungs. “I promised him I’d never leave him.”

“Cas, we can’t,” Charlie pressed. The use of his nickname irked something in him and he went forward, out of the shadows. One of the Skandians saw him as soon as he stepped foot into the light of the fire, but before he had the time to say anything, an arrow protruded from his chest, blood seeping out in either side of the wooden shaft. He gasped a laboured breath and fell onto the frozen ground. Another arrow lay on his bowstring before the previous one had hit its target, but before he could shoot, Charlie tugged him back into the safety of the shadows. She looked furious but terrified.

“Will you just use your head for one minute,” she whisper-yelled, pushing his bow down so the arrow was aimed at the ground. “We won’t make it out of the city alive if we don’t leave _now_. And we _have_ to find the Oberjarl. If he dies, this-” she gestured around them, to the blood staining the snow and the flames licking at the wooden structure, “will never end. Erak has to be alive to reclaim his position. Castiel, the future of both Skandia and Araluen depends on us now. You have to leave. You don’t have a choice.”

The pain in Castiel’s heart matched his expression as he glanced at the burning barracks one last time. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into the night, then he turned around and followed Charlie to the stockade. They reached it without too much bloodshed. Castiel used two more arrows and Charlie impressively managed to stab one Skandian in the neck when he got too close. He was halfway through his quiver by now.

Out there, it was even worse. The streets were crawling with people, all engaged in unorganized brawls with either weapons or their bare hands. It was impossible to tell which ones were on Erak’s side and which were Crowley’s men. For the first time since they got here, they made use of the map of alleys and shortcuts that they’d been making for the past months, and Castiel was glad that he hadn’t suppressed his initial habits and intuition.

The alleys were mostly deserted and they rushed through them without much disturbances, but sooner or later they had to take on the main road once again, and that’s when things got even worse. Some buildings had been set on fire as well, the bright orange light illuminating the scene in a way that reminded Castiel of how his teachers had always described Hell.

As soon as they stepped out of the darkness, they were dragged into a fight. Castiel took a fist to the jaw and he saw Charlie get dragged off by two heavy-looking, very hostile Skandian men. He yelled her name, tried to go after her, but seemingly out of nowhere a blade swished past right before his face and he stepped back, unsheathed his Saxe knife and planted it deeply in his attacker’s side. He only barely managed to sling his bow over his shoulder and take his throwing knife in his hands, too, before he was faced with another opponent. This man had a long, dark-brown beard and small, mean eyes. He swung his longsword viciously and Castiel ducked out of his range just in time, not even managing a counter attack before the Skandian struck again. Castiel blocked, only barely, but because of the crowd around them, he couldn’t move away properly.

Sensing his momentary distress, the man yelled a battle cry and charged at him, sword raised high in the air, ready to cleave Castiel in two. The Ranger widened his stance and brought his knives together, crossing them over each other so the hilts were touching and they created an X. He’d just raised them above his head when the Skandian’s sword crashed into it. The sheer force of the blow left Castiel’s knees buckling and his arms shaking in their effort, but he withheld. The Skandian looked mildly surprised but mostly angered, blinded by the adrenaline of battle, and he was just about ready to pull back and strike again when Castiel withdrew his throwing knife and stuck it fiercely in between the Skandian’s ribs. His face went from bloodthirsty to shocked and, eventually, lifeless. Castiel stepped aside swiftly as the large sword clattered onto the pavestones only a foot away from him.

He was panting, legs still a little unstable, as he pulled his knife out of the dead man’s chest. Gingerly looking around, he tried to spot Charlie, but it was of no use. More Skandians came pouring in from all directions, and Castiel did his best to block any weapons swung at him as he simultaneously tried to make his way farther down the road. There were too many of them, however, and he grunted in pain when a sword caught him in the side. It bit right through the soft leather and wool of his tunic and slashed at his skin, drawing blood immediately. Without looking, he knew it was deep. The man who did it to him earned himself a knife in the throat.

With one hand clasped against the wound – awkwardly as he was still holding his knife with it – he staggered through the clashing people, dodging and blocking where he could and attacking where he had to. By far not all the Skandians were professional warriors, but that didn’t really make a lot of difference – there were too many of them, and they were all far bigger than he is. They got the better of him by sheer, blunt power.

The blunt of a sword caught him in the temple at one point and he fell to the ground, dizzy and bleeding. When he looked up, the chaos around him seemingly in slow-motion, he saw a huge pile of wood in the middle of the road. As he looked on, one Skandian threw another armful of planks onto it and another one held a torch dangerously close. On top of it, in the centre, there was a straw puppet, one of a life-sized man with yellow wool doubling as hair and a braided beard.

His vision was a bit blurry and a sharp pain in his head kept him from focusing, the blood loss not helping either, and he blinked, not comprehending, at the stake as he tried to get up. A foot slammed harshly into his stomach, sending him crashing down again, coughing as he tried to get some air back into his lungs.

The torch now touched the wood and set it on fire, slowly at first for it had no accelerant on it, but spreading faster and faster and eventually, it licked at the straw puppet, and when Castiel looked into its fake face, he suddenly understood.

Another foot collided with his ribs, knocking him down once more. He wheezed and coughed, covered in his own blood and that of the enemy. Aching everywhere, he lifted his head, just in time to see a group of Skandian men and women raise their fists as they yelled praise towards the large fire, and Castiel recognized the long, blonde hair and beard. They’d been stupid to let it get this far.

It was Erak they were burning.

Castiel stirred, tried to push himself up, but a shadow fell over him and when he dared look up, he saw a man, looking devilish in the flickering light and impossibly tall from his angle. Pieces of that dreadful night in Willow Vale came flooding back to him and paralyzed him with anxiety, pressing on his chest. He was lying there, in the snow, surrounded by fire and ashes. And Castiel was sure that he’d breathed his last breath.

The Skandian raised his battle axe, higher, higher, above his head, then a little more, and more… Castiel stared at the blade that glinted in the firelight, waiting for it to come down onto him, but he watched in astonishment instead as it fell from the Skandian’s grasp and clanged onto the ground.

Still out of breath and with blurry vision he squinted, trying to focus, when his attacker dropped lifelessly next to his axe to reveal Gundar. He had his own sword in his hand, the upper half stained with blood, and there were smears of blood and dirt all over his face and arms. Small cuts and flesh wounds were visibly on his arms and there was even a gash in his leg that was sluggishly leaking blood, but he didn’t seem to even notice. He shot Castiel a wicked grin as he offered him his hand, which the Ranger gratefully took.

“Try an’ stay on yer feet,” he yelled, clapping Castiel on the back once he was standing. “Yeh ain’ goin’ ter win it by takin’ a nap.”

“Charlie,” Castiel panted. “I lost her. They dragged her away, I- I tried to stop them.”

“Yer girl’s fine, Erak’s got her. C’mon, we better go. Wouldn’ want ter keep ‘em waitin’, now would we?”

Following close behind Gundar as the Skandian sliced and hacked his way through the masses, Castiel finally made it off the main road and into a small alley. Charlie was standing there, looking a little shaken but no worse for wear, alongside Erak, who had definitely taken some hits, Svengal, and some other battered noblemen of whom Castiel couldn’t put the names to the faces. None of them were severely injured and Castiel rushed forward to wrap Charlie up in a hug.

“I was so worried,” Charlie whispered with a trembling voice. She was shaking, clearly scared from the battle which was something she normally never had to participate him. She might be tough, but she clearly wasn’t made for this. “I thought…”

“I’m okay,” Castiel said, allowing himself a moment to process that she was alive and safe. But that moment was broken when she gasped and pulled away, pushing his cloak aside to reveal the wound in his side. He groaned and leaned against a nearby wall.

Svengal stepped closer and took a quick look. “Eh, it’s not that bad,” he said. “We’ll patch yeh right up when we get somewhere safe.”

Charlie looked like she was about to protest but Castiel cut her off before she could. “He’s right. It’s not that bad. We’ll take care of it later. Right now, we have to make sure we get out of here alive.”

A whinny made him do a double take and he sagged in relief he saw Grace trotting towards him, her hooves muted by the snow on the ground. She pressed her nose against his shoulder and looked at him, her eyes filled with worry.

 _How come that every time you go off without me, you almost die?_ she asked. He wrapped his arms around her neck gratefully and pushed off the wall, barely managing to stay on his feet. He didn’t have the energy to reply.

“Gundar and I went back to get them,” Charlie told him. “Thought we’d have a better chance with them at our side.”

Castiel nodded, infinitely grateful to have Charlie and her insight there with him. He hauled himself up onto her back with much trouble and even more pain and steered her after the group of Skandians, Charlie on her horse by his side. There were only a few yards left between them and the edge of the city and Castiel used the remainder of his arrows to keep the rebels away. He only dared breathe when they left the city walls behind them and darted into the forest, the shadows and branches swallowing them up instantly.

Within the cover of the woods, the burning village seemed even more ferocious, the angry light leaking through the branches uninvited. They all sighed collectively, defeated. There was no other option for them but to watch as the fire reached high up into the night sky, aligning with the stars as it ate away at the city walls.

Hallasholm had fallen.

Erak in particular looked sad and angry as he glared through the branches. Charlie approached him, still on her horse’s back. She looked tired and sympathetic, shoulders slumped. “We should get going,” she said gently when she came to a stop beside him. “We can leave one or two of your men here as scouts, so they can gather any survivors loyal to you and get them safely to the mountain. But we have to get you out of here. If they kill you, this has all been for nothing. We need to get to the harbour, take a ship and get the Hell out of here.”

“Yeh want ter try an’ cross the Stormwhite Sea with the company we’ve got now?” Erak grunted. “That’s insane. We ain’ got enough men to row a Wolfship, an’ ter get out onto the sea in a smaller boat is a fool’s errand. We wouldn’ last a week! If we’d known ahead they were comin’, it might’ve worked. I’ll go into the damn mountains with yeh but I ain’ goin’ ter die at sea, fleein’ like some coward.”

Charlie was frowning angrily, not ready to give up, but the wound in Castiel’s side chose that moment to act up and he groaned loudly. His hand was slick with blood where it was pressing against it and the fluid had thoroughly soaked his tunic. The brown fabric had a large, dark red stain in it and the blood was even starting to seep into his trousers. The wound stung and ached and burned at the same time and Castiel was starting to feel a little light-headed. Gundar trudged over to him, tugging his hand away to get a good look. He grimaced when he saw the ripped flesh through the torn clothes but gave Castiel a smile and a surprisingly gentle pat on the back.

“Not that bad. Jus’ a flesh wound. What’d’yeh say, think yer ready ter go?”

Charlie looked worried, her face pale as she stared at the red patch in his tunic. “That needs to be taken care of right now.”

“No, I’m good,” Castiel protested weakly. His voice was a bit hoarse and strained, eyes half-shut. He was dizzy and couldn’t focus his vision. “I found a passage through the mountains when we were exploring. It must lead to the Eastern Steppe. If we go there, we can find shelter until King Duncan’s forces arrive.”

Erak shook his head. “Nah, we can’. That’s the country o’ the Temuj’ai. They ain’ friendly. We’d be dead before we’d e’en really stepped foot into the country.”

Castiel considered this. “Well, then. Charlie is right. The mountains aren’t survivable for long, if we can’t use the passage. Especially not unprepared as we are. It was a great back-up plan when we thought we were going to have a battle in, what, days? Weeks?” He had to pause and catch his breath, swaying in the saddle. “We thought we had time to prepare, to make a stand. Bring enough food and water. We were only going to go into the mountains if we were about to lose the battle, retreat there until King Duncan arrived with his forces, then go back and finish the fight.” Another pause. His words were slurring together slightly. “We have no chance in surviving up there for more than a few days. There is nothing up there but rocks and snow.”

He almost fell out of the saddle then. Gundar’s strong hand pushing him back was the only thing preventing him from crashing. Charlie seized her opportunity. “There’s an island not too far off the coast, right? We passed it on our way here from Araluen.”

Castiel vaguely recalled seeing it when they were on the _Wolfwill_ ; a stretch of rocky land in the distance as they sailed past it. It hadn’t looked big, but then again, their current company wasn’t particularly large either.

Svengal nodded. “Skorghijl. But that’s jus’ a group o’ rocks. There ain’ nothin’ there either.”

“There’s the sea,” Gundar countered. “Fish. Water. Not ideal but it’s somethin’.”

Erak looked not at all pleased but he was smart enough to listen. “A’ight. The harbour it is. Let’s go. Now, b’fore they burn all our ships.”

Grabbing the first-aid kit from her saddlebag, Charlie jumped down and practically ran over to Castiel. “If I don’t at least bandage it, you’ll die from blood loss before we even reach the mountain’s foot.” Castiel let her be; he didn’t have the energy to protest anymore. He watched in a daze as she carefully cut away the already torn fabric of his tunic with her dagger and gently but firmly placed a gauze over the wound, securing it swiftly. She stepped back to look at her handiwork.

“It should hold for now. If it soaks through, let me know so I can change it. Capiche?”

He nodded, darkly realizing that he probably wouldn’t even notice if it did. He felt like he’d drunk one too many tankards of ale; disoriented and not completely in control. It was a disturbing feeling, especially considering he hadn’t drunk any ale at all.

Finding their way through the woods at night wasn’t easy, especially when the moon had already set, but the Skandians had been roaming around in them for years, and Charlie’s sense of direction was pretty accurate – and she’d made a map – so they managed. Usually Castiel had a great sense of direction as well, if he said so himself, but he didn’t have a great sense of anything at the moment.

When they got out of the forest, on the far side of the harbour, the place was already crawling with rebellions. Some of the docked ships were already burning. Castiel watched as if in a dream as the Skandians in their party took the lead, slashing and pushing their way through the enemy lines.

Miraculously – Castiel suspected it was partially their fighting skills and partially the adrenaline rush – they got through the worst of it with only minor injuries and managed to make their way to a Wolfship. The horrid figure carved onto the bow of the ship looked vaguely familiar – it was the _Wolfwind_.

“I’ll be damned if I let ‘em burn me ship,” Erak grumbled as he cut down a charging man.

Castiel didn’t actively see what was going on around them, just vaguely felt Grace move under him as she was gently led up the gangway, probably by Charlie. He was slowly losing the feeling in his limbs. First, his toes and fingertips tingled and then went numb, slowly spreading through the rest of his body. His vision got foggier with every passing minute and the darkness of the night didn’t do anything to improve his sight. Slumped over the neck of his horse as she kept nudging him with her head to make sure he stayed on her back, the last thing Castiel saw before he blacked out was the night sky littered with stars. He slipped away into unconsciousness with a single word on his lips.

“Dean…”

 

****

 

When Castiel became aware of his surroundings again, it was still dark, but not the absolute kind of gloom that night always brings. It was the kind of dark that came from being somewhere the light doesn’t reach.

He groggily turned his head to the side and could just distinguish a wooden wall. After blinking a couple of times, he could see that it was illuminated by dully gleaming light. It was emitted from an oil lamp that was strung up on the ceiling. As he slowly became aware of his body again, he felt a faint, stinging pain in his side, just under his ribcage. It grew stronger and stronger until, in a strange moment of clarity, he realized that it was the prick and tug of a needle piercing his skin and pulling it back together. He groaned in protest because _damn_ that hurt, a nasty feeling that he wanted nothing more than to squirm away from. So he tried. A voice hissed above him somewhere and an even sharper, more insistent hurt shot through his body, crawling up his spine and spreading everywhere. Unable to stop it, Castiel did something he hadn’t done in years.

He screamed.

Pain was something he’d gotten used to – after as many battles as he’d fought, all the injuries he’d received, his tolerance for pain had risen considerably. It wasn’t something that bothered him much anymore; he’d learned to push through it. But now, lying on the floor of a Wolfship with a needle prodding at an open, infected wound, hazy and confused and scared and hopeless, he crumbled.

He vaguely heard what sounded like Charlie yell to “Hold him down!” and then two pairs of strong hands were gripping his shoulders and pushing him down onto the floor, shoulder blades digging into the wood painfully. He hadn’t even realized he was really struggling until he had no more room to move. Panting, he squeezed his eyes shut and grit his teeth, hands scrambling across the floor in search of something to hold onto, something to pull strength from. They didn’t find anything. His eyes were shut so tightly that he was seeing red spots and he had nothing to distract himself from the pain, so he tried to create something. Naturally, there was only one thing his mind came up with.

Emerald eyes, up so close that he could see the gold spots along the green. Cheeks dusted with freckled, glowing prettily in faint sunlight. Skin pale like marble in the moonlight and just as cold to the touch. Lips red as a rose, contrasting like blood in the snow. Something hauntingly beautiful, protruding ribs and bony fingers and sharp cheekbones. Skin dry as parchment adorned with markings quite like ink. Castiel could almost feel Dean’s hand in his, thumb stroking circles in the back of his hand, and the pressure of his head against his shoulder as they lay together. He could almost hear Dean’s voice, whispering “It’ll be okay, you’re okay” over and over.

He wasn’t sure when he lost consciousness, but when he woke up, the world was bouncing gently up and down. It was a strange sensation, kind of like he was floating. Or flying. Slowly, he managed to open his eyes and the first thing he saw was a thick rope, short distance across from him, and thinner rope weaved delicately all around him. It took him a bit too long to realize that he was in a hammock, swaying gently with the rhythm of the waves as the Wolfship sailed. The wood creaked and the rope groaned and he fell into a restless sleep with those noises in the background.

The next time he awakened it was still dark, somewhere in the early hours of the night, the oil lamp on the ceiling turned low. He looked around. He was still in the same cabin, at least he thought so, comfortably lying in the hammock. The oil lamp cast such a light that he could see his surroundings with ease but it didn’t hinder his sleep. The hammock was lined with soft furs and a sheepskin had been thrown across his chest. They all smelled musky and not at all fresh, but he was comfortable so he wasn’t complaining. Just a bit hot. The only downside was that he couldn’t really move. He wasn’t restricted, but it was almost like his body wouldn’t listen to any commands his mind gave it.

“Ah, good, yer awake,” someone said suddenly, in a volume so high it echoed through the cabin. Castiel turned his head and saw Gundar’s large body moving toward him. He barely fit through the door. “How’re yeh feelin’?”

“Been better,” Castiel slurred. Even his tongue wasn’t really cooperating. “Wha-?”

Gundar shushed him and helped him lift his head, carefully letting him drink some water from his flask. “Take it easy. Yeh got hurt pretty bad back there, man. Yeh can’ scare us like that.” He chuckled, but Castiel could see the genuine concern behind it. He managed a small smile that was hopefully reassuring.

“’ve had worse. How long was I out for?”

Gundar shrugged. “’Bout a day. Like I said: pretty bad.”

“But Charlie fixed it, right?” Castiel asked. “I remember she stitched me up.”

Gundar grimaced. “Yeah, wasn’ pretty, lemme tell yeh. Yeh were screamin’ like a pig an’ fightin’ like a bear. If I’m bein’ honest, I thought yeh weren’ goin’ ter make it.”

Castiel raised his eyebrows in surprise but attempted a chuckle. “Maybe you shouldn’t be so honest.” He shuddered. It was getting cold. He pulled the sheepskin up to his chin, only now realizing that it was a vest. Gundar wasn’t wearing his, he noticed. The oil lamp swayed as a wave rustled the ship. Castiel flinched when the wood creaked loudly.

Gundar was frowning. “Try an’ get some sleep, ‘kay? I’ll have Charlie check on yeh soon.”

Castiel wanted to reply, but his voice cracked and barely reached above a whisper, so he gave up. God, he was so tired. He closed his eyes. He could see the little flame in the oil lamp dance even behind his eyelids. In his dreams, it grew and grew until it consumed everything, and the creaking of the wood turned into the screams of people.

 

****

 

Castiel decided that he didn’t like waking up anymore. Everything hurt. His head, his side, his back. Even his hands felt raw and achy. His throat was dry and raspy and his tongue felt like it was made of leather, uncomfortably large in his mouth. He groaned.

Instantly, Charlie was by his side. He felt her cold hand against his forehead. Some rummaging, and a flask was held in front of his mouth. He drank greedily, thirsty like never before, and sank back down the furs gratefully when he was done. Something cold and wet was placed on his forehead and he didn’t like it, tried to remove it but his hands wouldn’t work.

“Rest,” Charlie said, her hand gently stroking through his hair. She’d never touched his hair before. “Save your strength. Get well.”

He frowned and tried to ask her what she meant but his mouth wouldn’t form words. His head lulled to the side and he closed his eyes again, too tired to keep them open.

The next time was even worse.

His body was on fire. For a short, agonizing moment, he actually thought they dropped a torch on him or something of the like, but that was not the case. His side was burning, a soaring and seething pain unlike anything he’d felt before. He clenched his teeth and curled his hands into fists, fingernails biting into his skin. That hurt, too. He tried to breathe through it but the pain was too much. It was suffocating him. He made a choked-off noise and someone came to stand beside him. He latched onto them immediately, clinging onto their arm for dear life.

“Easy, tiger,” a deep voice drawled. “Yer goin’ ter hurt yerself even more.”

Castiel gasped, clawing at the greasy sheepskin the guy was wearing. Two much stronger, much thicker hands grabbed his and pushed them down by his side again. “I said, take it easy,” the voice huffed. He was offered some water and he drank it but it didn’t taste as good as last time.

“Rest up, Ranger. ‘Much as I hate ter admit it, yer too valuable right now. We need yeh. So jus’, y’know, hang in there so yeh can bitch at us another day, a’ight?”

Castiel fell into a restless sleep, lulled by the low grunt of Svengal’s voice. He wasn’t sure it was really sleep. The words sounded like gibberish, he could hear them but he had no idea what they meant. Spots danced in front of his eyes, red blotches mixing in with the black. One moment he was hot, the other cold. It felt weird, like he was awake but asleep at the same time. Like he existed but at the same time, he didn’t. It was a confusing, unpleasant experience and Castiel started to fear the pain would never go away.

When he woke up, he was in a bed. On a mattress. With an actual pillow and blanket, not one that smelled like grease and ale and the sea. He sat up, startled, hands automatically falling down to skim across his side. There was nothing there. It was like he’d dreamed it. The injury, the battle, everything.

He pushed himself up, out of bed. Feet dangling just above the floorboards, he looked around the room. Wooden walls with simple decorations, some personal belongings scattered across the furniture. His bedroom. At home.

A smile on his lips despite himself, Castiel got up, put on a shirt and made his way down the creaky stairs into the kitchen. A fire was burning in the fireplace, a cauldron with a delicious-smelling stew boiling above it. His mouth watering, he wandered into the living room to search for his dad. It was rude to start breakfast without him, after all.

A strange sense of nostalgia washed over him when he entered the living area. It looked like home. But it also felt estranged. He didn’t understand.

“Dad?” he called. His voice sounded so much younger than he felt. He didn’t understand. The figure sitting on the couch stood up and turned around. Castiel’s breath caught in his throat. It was his father. His face was bruised and bloody, and the front of his attire was stained with blood. An arrow protruded from his chest, right in his heart. His eyes were dark and hard and hateful and Castiel’s hands were clammy.

“ _You did this_ ,” his dad hissed, pointing a finger at him accusingly. “ _You killed me_.”

“No,” Castiel mouthed, unable to actually make a sound. He was trembling, shaking his head as he desperately approached his father, trying to salvage what he’d broken.

“You did this to me, Castiel,” his father said. Castiel choked on a sob, still shaking his head. “This is your fault, Castiel. Castiel. Cas. _Cas_!”

It was Charlie’s voice that brought him back. He shocked awake, flailing and panicked, and once again hands were holding him down. The smell of grilled meat hung heavily in the musky air, mixed with sweat and the stale stench of blood and it was too much. Castiel only barely managed to flop over onto his side before he was retching, emptying his stomach onto the floor. There wasn’t much in it to begin with, however, mostly just water, so he was coughing up bile that scorched his throat. He coughed and spluttered, his side protesting heavily against the movements. The hands gently pushed him back down again.

“Easy,” a voice mumbled. Something wet dragged across his face, wiping the remnants of his vomit from his mouth. A damp rag was placed on his forehead and then someone was fumbling with the wound. The ache intensified and Castiel grabbed onto the first thing within his reach, squeezing it to tightly his fingers went white. Erak wasn’t too affected by the vice-like grip on his arm.

“Shhh,” Charlie shushed. Something cold and soothing touched his side. He slowly relaxed as it dulled the pain and spread numbness in its place. He was so tired. His eyelids fluttered shut. “Rest. Get better. You’ll be okay,” Charlie’s voice seemed to echo in his mind, driving away the noise that his father left. “You’ll be okay.”

This time, when he slipped away, it strangely felt a lot deeper than sleep.

 

****

 

Castiel’s eyelids were sticky, almost as if they were glued together. He lay as still as he could, keeping his breathing shallow and even, like it would be when he was asleep. He was lying on something soft, that much he could gather. It swayed, back and forth in an indistinguishable rhythm, and something akin to a blanket was draped over his body. He could hear different sounds but they all sounded dull and muted; the squeaking of birds and the crashing of waves. A damp cloth had been placed on his forehead. His side felt weirdly tingly and there was something wrapped around his hands. Not binds, but something he couldn’t quite place. His throat was a bit dry and his stomach rumbled with a healthy dose of hunger.

He heard rummaging not too far away and because he didn’t know who it was and he had no weapons on him, he stayed quiet. As soon as it stopped, he tried to pry his eyes open and, surprisingly, managed.

The room he was in was dusky, with an oil lamp on the ceiling as the only light source. A musky smell hung and there was dust all over the floor. The ‘blanket’ he’d felt was in fact a dirty, battered sheepskin vest, and when he reached to his forehead, the rag turned out to be a worn, small towel. Confused more than anything, he sat up and instantly winced as he felt a pull on his side. When he reached down to investigate, the sight he caught of his hands made them stop in their tracks. They were bruised and a bit bloody, with small bandages taped around some of his fingers. His fingertips were raw and there was blood under his nails.

A noise from outside of his room made his head snap around, but he didn’t have the time to lie back down and pretend to be asleep. But as soon as Charlie entered his line of vision, his posture relaxed. She gasped when she saw him, quickening her pace until she stood right next to him, her hand delicate on his shoulder.

“Hey,” she breathed, shock and relieved written all over her face. She gave him a quick once-over. “How are you feeling?”

“A bit weird,” Castiel admitted. “What’s going on? Where are we?”

Charlie froze. “You mean you don’t remember?” she asked. Castiel frowned.

“Remember what? The last thing I can recall is that we had to flee the city. It’s all a bit blurry. But after that it’s just black.”

Charlie looked mildly freaked out by that but she feigned calm as she replaced the rag on his forehead with a new, colder one. “Where are we? What happened?” Castiel asked. Charlie brushed a strand of hair off his forehead as she sighed.

“We’re on Skorghijl. The island by the coast of Skandia. It hasn’t been easy, though. You haven’t really been of much help.” She smiled, going for a light tone, but her voice was a bit grave and wavered a little and her eyes looked sad. “We somehow made it here with this few people on a full-on Wolfship, and we’ve been living off of fish for the past few days. And you’ve been pretty much in and out of consciousness the whole time.”

Castiel did a double take. “Days? How long was I out for?”

Charlie looked amused despite herself, like he asked a stupid question. “A couple of days,” she repeated. “You got hit. One of the rebels got you in the side. And we didn’t treat it properly. And not soon enough. Your wound got infected. It gave you a bad fever. You had me really worried, for a moment.”

It was a rare, sincere moment from Charlie and Castiel managed a smile to show how much he appreciated it. “Thanks for saving my life, I guess.”

Charlie smiled back. “You’re welcome.”

She changed his bandage, then – Castiel made a face; it even _smelled_ infected – and put a cream on the wound. It felt cold when it touched his skin and it had a strong smell but it did the job – his side felt tingly numb after a few minutes. “I think the infection is mostly gone,” Charlie said. “Your fever has come down. Now you can finally really begin to heal. So, bedrest. Absolutely no workouts or training or whatever.”

“Yes, mom,” Castiel grunted. “When do I get to go out of this musky room?”

“When the infection is completely cured and you feel like you can walk again,” Charlie deadpanned. “Now, I’ll go and grab you some food, and then you’re going to get some more rest, okay?”

It went on like that for a while – eating, sleeping, more eating and some more sleeping. The wound in his side was indeed getting better. It still looked quite gruesome – all red and raw with some bruises still around it – but it didn’t hurt as much anymore and the infection was completely healed now.

Stepping out of the ship and onto solid ground was truly a relief. The island was rocky and barren and uneven and Castiel already stumbled three times on the way from the ship to the contained fire they had burning, but the ground wasn’t moving under his feet and the air didn’t smell of greasy sheepskin. The cold, fresh air already made him feel better, despite the wound protesting when he walked and sat down.

“Aye, champ, nice ter see yeh back on yer feet,” Erak said, handing him a bowl with a stew that smelled surprisingly delicious. He tucked in gratefully. It tasted as good as it smelled. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he had some food in his stomach.

Skorghijl was indeed everything the Skandians had told him about – it was little more than a collection of rocks sticking out above the sea level. There were no plants or trees and the only real change in scenery was the light sand on the beach.

The days seemed to blend into each other, with the same food and the same view and the same lack of activity every day. The wound on his side was slowly getting better – Charlie removed the stitches at one point and his skin went from red to a softer pink.

In the days he’d been ill from the infection, he’d grown weaker, so he worked as hard as he could to regain his strength. It was slow going – the wound still got irritated and painful when he pushed too hard, and some days Charlie would force him to stay in bed and rest up – but he was getting there. His muscle mass and stamina slowly but surely got back to the point where they had been before.

He did routinely exercises throughout the day and had one-on-one practice duels, first with Charlie and later with Gundar and Svengal. He worked and worked until he was so tired he thought he might collapse. But all of that couldn’t distract him from the one thing that was constantly evident in his mind, no matter how hard he tried not to think about it.

The exercises were easy, mindless; battle had become second nature after all the fights he’d fought. Dean snuck back into his mind every time. He tried to block him out, tried not to think about how massively he’d failed the boy, but it was of no use. Dean kept creeping back into his thoughts, so prominent and insistent that Castiel felt like he was losing his mind. He went through the motions, did his job, pretended to listen when the others discussed battle strategy and other things, but he wasn’t really there. His mind was somewhere else, back in Hallasholm, with the Grace’s warmth against his back and Dean pressed up against his side. He felt empty.

Grace was quite happy to finally be let out of the stable and Castiel felt bad for keeping her in there for as long as he had. He silently promised that when they got home – and he pointedly refused to think about the possibility that they wouldn’t – he’d spoil her rotten.

They went for rides along the beach as soon as the wound on his side allowed it. It was nice to trot up and down the beach, but the scenery got boring pretty quickly – they could only stay within the confines of the higher rocks in the centre of the island, or they’d risk being seen from the mainland. The chance was small that anyone was actually watching, for they hadn’t sent anyone after them, but they didn’t want to take the risk.

So Castiel was, well, stuck. And with no real job for him to do, no task to distract him, all he could do was wallow in self-pity and worry as he thought of Dean. He tried to disguise his misery the best he could but Charlie noticed anyway. (Honestly, he shouldn’t have expected her not to. It was her job to notice things.) She didn’t confront him about it but she kept shooting him worried glances and checked on his wound more often than was necessary.

With a start, Castiel realized that she didn’t know _what_ was up with him. And, if he was being truthful, Castiel himself wasn’t so sure about that either. Of course, he’d left Dean behind in the hands of those barbarians, but the unpleasant feeling in his stomach wasn’t guilt. It was something different, something stronger. Something way more painful. It was a sense of longing that he’d never felt before, a bone-deep ache so strong it was ever-present. And no matter how hard he tried, no matter how bad he wanted to, it didn’t leave.

Ironically, the one that helped him realize what exactly that feeling meant wasn’t Charlie; it was Svengal. It was just a throwaway, tactless comment – as always – but it did get him thinking.

“Yeh look like a lovesick puppy,” the Skandian grunted. He, Castiel and Gundar were preparing the freshly caught fish for dinner – Castiel could learn a lot from them in that department – so they were up to their ears in fish gut and a rotten, salty smell. Castiel personally didn’t think it was the right time to talk about something like this but Svengal didn’t seem bothered at all. “It’s kinda pathetic, ter be honest. Yer a big, strong warrior that ain’ afraid o’ nothin’, but as soon as yeh got ter leave yer girlfriend behind yer mopin’ like a lonely moose in matin’ season.”

Castiel shot him a calculating look, unsure of how to respond. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Svengal waved his comment away easily. “Boyfriend, then. I don’ judge. But the point is that yer slippin’. Yer depenin’ too much on this one person. Me aunt Isabelle always said that love is weakness. Now, I don’ agree with that completely, but lookin’ at you now, I see where she got the idea.”

“You don’ have an aunt,” Gundar pressed. Svengal pretended not to hear.

Castiel squinted at him but proceeded to cut open the next fish. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Heh. ‘S what they all say,” Svengal snorted. “Next thing yeh know, yer bakin’ him pastries an’ cleanin’ the room ‘cause he hates when it’s dusty. Trust me, I’m talkin’ from experience. Whoever this mysterious guy o’ yers is, he’s got a tight grip on yeh. Yeh look kinda lost without him now. Yer goin’ through the whole ‘can’t live without him’ thing. See this, this is exactly why me aunt never got married. This dopey shit.”

He tossed his finished fish at Castiel, who only barely caught it in time before it splashed intestines all over his clothes. He grimaced and put it with the others. “Your aunt sounds like a smart woman,” he replied.

Gundar snorted. “An imaginary one, more like,” he muttered under his breath.

Castiel let the meaning of Svengal’s words sink in. The fact that he was in love with Dean was not really a secret anymore – not to him, anyway, and apparently not to Svengal either – but what exactly that little four-letter word contained, he had never thought of before.

Vulnerability was one thing, but this sense of longing – this _dependency,_ that was something else entirely. Castiel was close to going _I didn’t sign up for this_ but he kept himself in check. “I have to go,” he muttered before dropping his fish on the ground and striding off.

This was a whole new thought, one that had never crossed his mind before, but now that it was there he couldn’t get rid of it. It plagued him, more than the guilt and longing had. Because this, what he was feeling, it went so much deeper than just missing someone. This was a sense of belonging so deep it rattled his bones and set his veins ablaze. It was beyond anything he’d ever known. It was the ache of _home_.

Sure, he’d left his cabin behind, his country, his (limited list of) friends, but that was all materialistic. The cabin was his because he’d been appointed Ranger of that fief, but all Ranger cabins looked the same. Just because he lived there, didn’t mean it felt like home. And yeah, he missed the familiarity of it all a little, but it was hard to really miss something if it didn’t feel like home.

That shook Castiel with another thought; the realization of just how _lonely_ his life had been so far. And he’d been okay with that – that’s how it had always been, he didn’t know better – but now that he’d gotten a sneak peak of what life could be like if he just let himself fall, he didn’t want to go back to being alone.

He felt his gaze harden at the same time his mind did. Determination crawled through every cell in his body as he glared at the sea. It didn’t matter if they had to wait. It didn’t matter if there would be a war. Castiel would do everything in his power and more to get Dean back, even if he had to turn the whole country inside out. He would get his boy back.

 

****

 

It was early in the morning when the first ship appeared at the horizon.

Castiel thought he was dreaming at first. He’d only just woken up and gone for his daily run along the beach and while the cold morning air helped wake him up, his mind was still a bit foggy with sleep.

It was a three-masted vessel, glorious in the light of dawn, and as it got closer Castiel could distinguish the golden details and the weapon on the flag in the highest mast.

It was the weapon of the royal house of Araluen.

Castiel nearly tripped a few times in his haste to get back onto the Wolfship – they slept in the cabins and, beside their regular exercises and fishing trips, they spent most of their time on board to escape the cold – and rushed to Charlie’s cabin. He didn’t bother knocking but just strode in. Charlie nearly fell out of her hammock when Castiel woke her up but her irritation quickly morphed into alarm when she took in his expression.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. Her hand immediately went to the sheath holding her dagger. “Are Crowley’s men here?”

Castiel shook his head. “No. I think- I think it’s King Duncan.”

That made her do a double take. “King Duncan? He’s here?”

“His ship is. It’s not very close yet but I could see it. The flag has his weapon on it.”

Charlie frowned. “Just one ship? Are you sure it’s Araluan?”

“Yes,” Castiel stressed. “Maybe this one went ahead of the rest of the fleet. I don’t know. But there’s an Araluan ship coming this way and if we don’t hurry it may just sail past the island.”

Charlie pushed herself out of the hammock and grabbed her boots. “Come on then. Get some wood and make a fire, I’ll go wake Erak and the others. We’ll be right out.”

Castiel nodded and made his way to the kitchen, stumbling – he still hadn’t found his sea legs. The firewood had luckily been restocked just before they’d left the mainland, so there was plenty, and Castiel grabbed as much as he could carry and took it outside. Charlie followed with the Skandians in town only a minute later and they set up the fire together.

It felt pathetically small against the vast mass of the sea before them but it was still early in the morning; the sun wasn’t fully up yet and the light would carry far. Hopefully, an observant guard on the ship would see it and alert the others.

It didn’t look like that was going to happen, at first. The ship didn’t stray from its course as it neared the island, and Castiel’s hope was starting to fade a little, but then it made a sharp turn and headed for the island’s bay. Minutes ticked by as it came closer and closer and details were clearly visible now; the unmistakable weapon of Araluen on the flag, the rich decorations in the bow and on the sides of the ship. Castiel released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and felt relief float through him as he hugged Charlie in excitement, twirling her around in the air.

The ship barely fit into the cove next to the Wolfship that was already anchored there, but an agile manoeuvre later it was bobbing up and down to the gentle waves and the heavy iron anchor hit the water, causing a splash. There wasn’t a real harbour on Skorghijl, so the ships couldn’t be fastened to the shore, but the water here was calm enough that the gangway could be rather steadily placed on the beach without too much trouble. During low tide, the sea pulled back enough that the ships were completely dry, anyway.

Castiel watched anxiously, his arms still around Charlie for moral support, as servants moved around on deck like ants on their hill. After what felt like an eternity, the activity ceased and the first man disembarked. He was dressed in blue and silver armour, elegant but also practical, and he looked noble, even ruffled and tired as he was after what must have been weeks aboard a ship.

King Duncan’s feet planted themselves into the white sand of Skorghijl’s beach and Castiel and Charlie simultaneously sank to one knee. Erak didn’t copy them, but he bowed lightly, looking uncomfortable by the display of courtesy.

Duncan approached them and Castiel was surprised to feel his hand on his arm, coaxing him back on his feet. “Ranger Novak,” he said, voice warm but serious, “I’m glad to see you’re alive and well.”

“‘Well’ is still a discussable term for him,” Charlie piped in, smirking a little as she gracefully rose to her feet and nodded to the King respectfully. “Ranger Novak got injured during our escape from Hallasholm.”

“I’ve healed,” Castiel said defensively, still a little uneasy with the presence of royalty right beside him. The King’s shiny boots were already caked in mud and he was standing among them like equals. “I’m good to go into battle.”

King Duncan nodded seriously, hands folded neatly behind his back. “Yes, I’m afraid it’ll have to come to that.”

He stepped forward, an arm outstretched, towards Erak. They shook hands like old friends, and Duncan moved to greet the other Skandians. “I’ve come with the better part of the Araluan army. There’s a fleet of ships waiting just beyond the horizon. We’ve brought our best knights and a company of archers. Of soldiers and weapons we will have no deficiency. Oberjarl,” he addressed Erak, “do you have soldiers at the ready?”

“I’ll send a scout back into the city, ter let those loyal ter me know what’s comin’,” he replied. “They’ll be ready. They’re always ready fer a fight.”

He grinned crookedly when he said that and for a moment, Castiel could see the bloodthirsty warrior in him.

King Duncan nodded in approval. “Good. I’ll let my barons know that they should resume the final distance here when the sun sets. We’ll ready the army when it’s dark and everyone is asleep and by first light, we’ll attack. Have your ship ready. Do you have enough weapons?”

Everyone nodded and grunted an affirmative. Castiel scraped his throat. “A quiver refill would be nice, Sire. I used all my arrows when we were making our escape.”

“Consider it done. I’ll have one of my archers bring you a new quiver as soon as we reach the mainland,” Duncan replied. “Now, have patience for just a little longer. This whole mission is about to finally come to an end.”

 


	9. House on a hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean looked at him, but it seemed more like he was reacting to the sound of his voice rather than to the actual words. More confused than he’d ever been before, Castiel slowly walked out of the room and watched as Dean obediently followed.

The fleet that King Duncan had brought with him was massive. Castiel didn’t think he’d ever seen it being used at this capacity. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he said he brought the better part of the army.

The worst part was getting to the coast unseen. Thankfully, Crowley had been arrogant enough to not place guards at the coast, but a fleet this size would surely get attention. So they docked a fair distance away from the city, the ships forming a long line. The single Wolfship between them stood out like a daisy in a field of roses.

Castiel wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see on the mainland, but even in the dark, he could see that there hadn’t been done a lot of cleaning. Charred remains of Wolfships lay in the sand, some pieces still floating in the water. The snow had melted away in some places, and where it hadn’t, it was mostly coloured a dark grey, mixed with ashes. The smell of smoke still hung vaguely in the air, harsh and bitter, as Castiel stepped foot onto the Skandian mainland for the first time in over three weeks.

That may not be a long time, but it was evident how much had changed in that period of time. Where under Erak’s reign the country had felt bustling and lively (even if the people hadn’t been hospitable), now it was silent and cold. There was no nightly activity at all; no silhouettes of ships on the ocean in the distance, no loud voices as drunk men stumble around and across the city. Just an eerie silence, with the wind rustling through the trees and the waves breaking on the shore.

Araluan ship after Araluan ship landed on shore, bows scraping the white sand. Rushed footsteps, muffled orders shouted, the clatter of metal as everyone readied their weapons. Castiel’s heart burned like the city had on the day of their escape, hot with anger and passion and the longing to make things right. His goal was not freeing the city – his goal was freeing Dean.

The wound on his side had healed almost completely, but it did get a little irritated still when he overexerted. Charlie had advised him not to participate in the battle tonight, to sit this one out because she was sure it would start acting up again, but Castiel didn’t care. He would gladly endure that pain, and a lot more, if it meant that he could get Dean back with his own hands. He broke his promise to Dean, and now he would cross oceans and move mountains to take that back. To make it right.

Sand crunched under shoes as someone approached them. Castiel turned to look at the newcomer and, as Charlie did a small curtesy and took on her respectable-diplomat-persona, Castiel felt a smile forming despite himself.

“Look at what the tide washed in,” Balthazar grinned, pulling Castiel in an amicable hug. Castiel hugged back, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Castiel. It’s great to see you’re still on your feet. I was getting a bit worried about you, my friend.”

“It’s good to see you too. How is Willow Vale doing?”

“It’s doing great,” Balthazar smiled. “Rebuilding’s finished, the dead are buried, and we’re slowly growing back to our old glory.”

“What happened to Kevin?” Castiel wondered, remembering the orphaned kid that showed up on his doorstep that dreaded night.

“I gave him a place in the castle. He had a lot of trouble adjusting at first but he’s in good hands. He’s learning to deal.”

Castiel nodded gratefully. “That’s good. He deserves a good place.” A beat. “I really am glad you’re here. We can use someone with your skill in this fight. It’s not going to be easy.”

“I’m glad I can be of service,” Balthazar mock-saluted and squeezed Castiel’s shoulder as he laughed. “Let’s go take these bastards down, shall we?”

He strode off into the night. Castiel was ready to follow but Charlie elbowed him in the side gently. “You know Baron Balthazar? One of the most high-ranking barons of the country?” she whispered.

“We go way back,” Castiel answered. A smirk on his face, he followed the silver armour of his friend as the army organized and positioned. The march into the city was quiet, footsteps mostly muffled by the sandy road and the clatter of weaponry kept to a minimum.

The fleet hadn’t taken any horses with them – too much trouble for too little gain – so they didn’t have a cavalry, but the army seemed big enough to be able to take on a sleeping city. Apparently, the men had been thoroughly briefed of the city’s state and how it had to be done – everything went smoothly, quick and silent.

Once the sand under their feet turned to stone and the trees became buildings, it all went very fast. The city hadn’t been as asleep as they’d thought – several Skandians roamed the streets. They got over their surprise rather quickly and jumped straight into fight mode.

Castiel stayed on the rear end of the army with the other archers, sending deadly clouds onto the enemy as more and more Skandians poured out of their houses and onto the streets.

With the chaos of battle upon them, Castiel was preoccupied with surviving and making sure his friends did too, but the Araluan army was too large and too much of a surprise to Crowley’s men. Before long, they’d re-taken the better part of the city. As the soldiers gathered around the Great Hall, preparing for the final siege, the leaders got a small break. Balthazar came and found Castiel as the Ranger made his way into the city. The streets were slippery with snow and blood, the mirror image of barely three weeks ago, but it felt so different.

“Good work,” Balthazar praised, wiping a trickle of blood off Castiel’s brow. “That was some nice shooting.”

“Thank you. You weren’t doing too bad either,” Castiel replied. Balthazar might’ve been a bit jolly at times, but he was a good fighter.

Charlie popped up beside them, too, wrapping Castiel up in a warm hug. She wasn’t trained in combat so she’d stayed on the side. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she breathed. “I worried that you’d end up like last time.”

“I barely even fought hand-to-hand this time,” Castiel reminded her. She punched him in the arm.

“Don’t patronize me. I’m allowed to worry about you. You almost died on me.”

They were interrupted by yelling and clanging echoing through the streets. Balthazar turned towards the origin of the noise. “Looks like the siege has begun. I’d better go help out my men. You two stay safe.”

There was a loud creaking noise and even in the darkness, they could see a thick cloud of earth and dust rise up as part of the stockade came down. Charlie put her hand on Castiel’s arm. He shot her a distracted smile. “Thank you. For being there. I know I haven’t been the easiest person to be around.”

Charlie’s answering smile was soft and understanding. “It’s okay. I know it’s been hard on you.”

Castiel was trembling with anticipation and adrenaline, hands clenched into fists by his side and eyes unwavering on the road to the Great Hall. Charlie sighed, amused, and gave him a push. “Go. Find your boy.” A short pause. “Take him home.”

Castiel didn’t need to be told twice. With a rushed “Thanks!” in Charlie’s general direction, he rushed off towards the Great Hall. The road leading to it was eerily silent and red compared to the many other times he’d walked it. The noise got louder and louder as he came closer. The siege had clearly not yet been won, but Castiel wasn’t about to wait. He’d done enough of that in the past few months. Now, finally, it was time to take action.

The yard was a mess. Both Skandians and Araluans were engaged in battle everywhere and dodging them proved to not be easy. Castiel took out his Saxe knife, just in case, and managed to block and reflect a few sword strokes with it as he pushed his way through. Finally, he reached the far end of the Great Hall and around the corner, it was a lot more quiet. The fight hadn’t gotten through to here yet.

Rounding the corner, heart pounding harshly in his ribcage, Castiel walked warily but with purpose, only to come to a sudden, calamitous stop as he lay eyes on the slave’s barracks. Or rather, what was left of it. It had been reduced completely to ashes, charred pieces of wood sticking out of the snow the only proof that there had ever even been anything. No new shelter had been built for the slaves and for a moment, Castiel feared the worst.

He pushed that thought away as quickly as it had come, however. No, he couldn’t afford to think like that. Dean was out there somewhere, he was still alive. Castiel still had a chance to make it up to him. To keep him safe. He had to.

Keeping to the shadows, Castiel walked back into the yard, as good as invisible in the dark in his cloak. The back entrance to the kitchen was unguarded and he managed to slip in, but not unseen – just as he pulled the door shut behind him, a battle axe embedded itself in the wood. He narrowly avoided the splinters flying around and readied himself to make a stand, but the Skandian who the axe belonged to never came. He probably got pulled back into the fight.

Castiel sheathed his knife and rushed through the kitchen to where he knew the kitchen slaves slept. Throwing open the door, he was oddly relieved to hear the chorus of surprised gasps and frightened noises that greeted him. It meant they hadn’t simply killed off the slaves.

They were all girls, though; there was not a trace of the others.

“Where did they take them?” Castiel tried. “The yard slaves. Where are they?”

The girls just looked at him, not understanding. He tried again in the Trade language, the common tongue a lot of people around the world spoke collectively, by means of communicating when trading. Some of the girls understood him now.

“Auction,” one of them said, quietly and still scared but she could see that he wasn’t a bad guy. “Most of them were auctioned. To Crowley’s followers.”

Castiel’s heart skipped a beat. “Auctioned?” His stomach churned. “Where are they now?”

“I don’t know,” the girl answered. “They all have different owners now.”

Castiel cursed. Rushing off with a hurried “Thank you”, he made his way through the Great Hall to the main entrance. Crowley’s men weren’t paying attention to people coming out of the building, only those who were trying to get into it, so by the time they realized he wasn’t one of them, he was already past the remains of the stockade.

Blinded by rage, he stormed into the first house he saw, scaring a woman and her two little kids out. He tore through it like a hurricane, turning over every piece of furniture and searching every dark corner. But he came up with nothing.

Charlie found him when he got back onto the street again. She looked tired and stressed but satisfied, though her features took on a frown when she saw him. “What’s going on with you? No offense but you look like a raving lunatic. Can’t find your boy or something?”

“They auctioned him,” he panted, breathless from his rampage. “Sold him like- like livestock on a farmer’s market.”

Charlie put her hand on his arm to calm him down, but he shook it off. “I have to find him. I’ll find him and I’ll kill whoever dared lay a finger on him.”

He pushed past her but Charlie darted in front of him again, stopping him. “Hey, you need to calm down. I get that you’re upset but running around like a headless chicken isn’t going to help anyone.”

“Actually, I don’t think you do,” Castiel sneered, turning sharply to face her. “I promised him that I would look after him. I promised him that everything would be okay, that I wouldn’t let anything happen to him. I promised him that. And now this happens to him. I don’t even know if he’s alright. I broke my promise.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Charlie whispered. Castiel turned away, the pain in his eyes matching the pain in his heart.

“I failed him. I have to make it right. I have to find him.”

“And I’ll help. _We’ll_ help. All of us. But you can’t search through every house in the city by yourself without a plan.”

“Watch me,” Castiel growled. Charlie pushed him back more forcefully.

“ _No_. We will find him, Cas, I _promise._ But right now, you need to calm down. Go take care of the wounded. Pull yourself together. Once we have control of the city, we’ll find out where he is and we’ll go get him immediately. Okay?”

Castiel grit his teeth, but the logical part of him, the part that hadn’t been taken over by emotion, knew she was right. “Fine,” he bit, pushing past her to where they’d laid out the injured. There were a lot of them, though by far not as many as there could have been, and the medics that King Duncan had brought on the fleet had trouble keeping up.

So he stayed there for the rest of the morning, bandaging up wounds and handing out food rations and water. And finally, when the sun was up and already high in the sky, illuminating the bloody roads, Charlie came back. Erak and Gundar followed close behind her.

“I think we found him,” Charlie informed him. Castiel’s heart skipped a beat. “Or, almost. We found the houses of the men who bought the yard slaves. He has to be in one of them. You coming?”

She didn’t need to ask twice. Castiel was up within seconds, weapons sheathed and his longbow over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

The block of houses they went to was more spacious than the regular Skandian houses and Castiel guessed that these were the residents of the Jarls that lived in Hallasholm. Of course, the ones that were loyal to Erak had either fled the city or had been killed, so most of the houses were now used by Crowley’s most trusted men.

Most of the houses were already empty – their residents had gone out to fight and were now either dead or had surrendered. A sweep of those houses did result in them finding a few former yard slaves, some in better conditions than others, but none of them were Dean. Castiel was starting to feel a little desperate.

They decided to split up to cover the last two houses, ones that were obviously not abandoned – Erak went with Charlie and Gundar and Castiel were paired together. Taking a stance behind the Skandian, Castiel watched impatiently, bow at the ready, as Gundar broke down the door with his battle axe, darting inside as soon as he could. He continued towards the living area, but within a few seconds, his path was blocked by a Skandian man, bigger and meaner than any he had encountered before. Barely batting an eyelid, Castiel drew and released the arrow that he’d nocked. It hit its target with a loud _thump_ and the Skandian fell backwards onto the floor with such an impact that dust rose up from the floorboards.

Gundar had only just raised his battle axe for a counter attack when Castiel already stepped over the body and proceeded further into the house. A woman screamed when she saw him, and even louder when she saw what Castiel presumed was her husband’s body, but she wasn’t carrying a weapon so he didn’t deem her a threat. He trusted Gundar to take care of her.

The living room proved void of any slaves and, with another arrow at the ready, Castiel continued towards the backroom, cautious but quick. When he reached the next room, the first thing he noticed was the smell. It was terrible. It reeked of sweat and piss and something else, something sharp and evident that Castiel had never smelled before. He started breathing through his mouth to make the stench bearable. Then the cold got to him. It seeped through the cracks in the pinewood wall and rose up from underneath the floorboards. It was hardly any warmer than in the old slaves’ barracks. It was cramped, too – there was barely enough room for him to fit.

The next thing he noticed was the improvised mattress, consisting mostly of hay and torn cloth. Or, more accurately, the body perched on top of said mattress. He was ghostly and thin, drained of all colour and so frail that he looked like he would crumble at the slightest touch. Hunched over he sat, knees pulled up and arms wrapped around them, rocking back and forth gently as he mumbled something under his breath.

“Dean?” Castiel said as he put his arrow back in the quiver and slung his bow up his shoulder. His relief at finding him quickly dissolved when he saw the state he was in. Dean didn’t even seem to notice him. Cautiously and quietly, he approached the boy, and he got more worried and confused with every step he took closer. “Dean? It’s me.”

Dean’s pale skin was decorated with bruises. They varied in size and colour, but what Castiel could see peeking from under his shirt were mostly dark purple or blue and they looked big and painful. When Castiel crouched in front of him, head bent a little to look him in the eye, he saw that Dean’s once bright emerald orbs were now to dull they were almost grey. His gaze shifted through the room, briefly flitted over Castiel’s features before wandering on like nothing had happened. Castiel’s heart sank. Dean didn’t recognize him.

In fact, Dean didn’t even seem to _see_ him, which was… odd, at best, although it wasn’t that Dean didn’t _recognize_ him. On the other hand, it meant that something was terribly off.

Gundar walked into the room then, too, and he sighed, resigned. Castiel looked at him sharply. “What’s wrong with him? Why is he like this?”

Dean curled into himself more, staring blankly at the wall as he continued his unintelligible mumbling. Gundar shook his head and gestured for him to come. “Let’s go back. Take the kid with yeh. We got the Great Hall back so yeh can take ‘im there.”

He walked off with that and Castiel was left puzzled and in charge of an almost catatonic slave. Teary-eyed – even though he would never admit that to anyone – he got closer to Dean and lightly tugged on his arm. Now, the boy did look at him, but there was still no sign of recognition whatsoever.

“Hey,” he said gently, “you’re coming with me, alright? You’re safe now.”

Dean looked at him, but it seemed more like he was reacting to the sound of his voice rather than to the actual words. More confused than he’d ever been before, Castiel slowly walked out of the room and watched as Dean obediently followed.

 

****

Ever since he’d gotten to know Dean, Castiel had thought that walking into the Great Hall like this, with Dean by his side and nothing stopping them, would be a day to celebrate. Never had he imagined it would go like this.

Svengal met them inside and showed them to a room, far in the back of the building where they weren’t bothered by the things happening outside. Erak had found and battled Crowley, and he’d won. The Jarls were now deciding what to do with the rest of the rebellions. Apparently, Crowley hadn’t been the greatest leader, so many were actually glad that Erak was back.

Castiel left Dean alone in their room while he went to sort some stuff out with the Araluans, but he made sure that there was a guard standing by the door at all times. With Erak back on the throne and the Araluan army in and around the city, the situation was well under control. Duncan wanted a full report on everything that had happened ever since they arrived in Hallasholm all those months back. This was the longest mission Castiel had done, and also the longest he’d ever been away from home, so there was a lot to talk about. They mostly spoke of the significant things, like the build-up to the civil war and how Crowley’s men were responsible for the raids in Araluen.

They also spoke of Dean, or rather, “the Araluan citizen that has been illegally kept in slavery”, as Charlie described him. She also told the king that Castiel and said slave had built a friendship during their time in Hallasholm, but the way she told it made it seem like he’d tried to keep Dean close _because_ he was Araluan, for the sake of their mission. He was glad she made it sound more professional than it had actually been, especially in front of the king.

Castiel found a spot on the half-broken down stockade afterwards, staring into the distance as the mess down below was cleaned up. He was worried about Dean. Something was going on with him that Castiel had never seen before and it was scaring him.

He was so deep in thought that he didn’t hear the footsteps approaching, and he only noticed the Skandian next to him when he spoke up. “Yeh know, b’lieve it or not, but I was actually in a situation like yers meself once.”

Castiel startled and looked to his side, where he saw Gundar leaning on the stockade next to him. “Oh yeah?” he asked. Erak nodded.

“Yeah. It was a bit of a long time ago, before the whole treaty thing b’tween our countries. But I still r’member it like it was jus’ yesterday.”

Castiel scoffed. “Now you’re just being dramatic.”

Erak smirked. “Yeah. I am. But it’s also true. Yeh see, it was back in the time when we still raided Araluen. I’d done jus’ that, an’ I’d captured a boy an’ a girl when I was there. An’ that boy – he was a tough one, that one – he went ter the yard. Truth is, I actually got a lil’ attached ter him on the trip, an’ I wasn’ Oberjarl back then, so when they said he had ter go ter the yard, he had ter go ter the yard. So I didn’ see ‘im fer a while, an’ when I saw him again, he was addicted ter warmweed.”

“Addicted to what now?” Castiel asked. Erak, for once, seemed patient.

“Warmweed. ’S a drug. Yeh chew on the leaves o’ the plant and it makes yeh feel all warm inside. O’course, yeh don’ actually get warm, but it feels like yeh do. An’, in a country like this, that’s a very welcome feelin’. It’s used a lot among the yard slaves ter keep ‘em warm at night. Always has. I wanted ter ban it ‘cause it’s dangerous. It’s very addictive, that stuff, jus’ usin’ it a few times can already get yeh hooked. And once yer on it, yeh turn into some kinda ghost. Mindless. But the previous Oberjarl didn’ care enough to ban it. Or maybe he wanted the slaves ter be more obedient, I don’ know. ‘Soon as I got the job I did. But fer a lot of ‘em, it was already too late. Fer my boy, too.

“But I helped ‘em escape, back then. I got the girl outta the kitchen an’ sent her an’ the boy on the run with a horse an’ some food. An’ some warmweed, o’course. Comin’ down from that addiction takes a long time an’ it’s very painful. But they did it. I set ‘em free an’ they got away. The boy got clean, too. An’ later, he came back and he fought on our side. Saved Hallasholm. The kid that used to be a slave.”

“What are you saying?” Castiel asked. Erak sighed, deep and tired but satisfied and determined, all in one.

“I’m sayin’ that that’s what yer boy has. Warmweed addiction. ‘Long as he’s got that stuff in his system, he’s goin’ ter be in another world. He’s goin’ ter need help to get clean.”

“I’ll help him,” Castiel said immediately. He didn’t hesitate. There wasn’t a single doubt in his mind that he wanted to help Dean. “How do I do it?”

“It ain’ goin’ ter be pretty,” Erak said. “It’s goin’ ter be long an’ hard an’ he ain’ goin’ ter be o’ any help at all ‘till he’s completely clean.”

“I’ll do it,” Castiel repeated. Erak looked him in the eye for a few moments, then nodded.

“A’ight. I’ll get yeh some o’ the stuff. Now, will yeh do me a favour?”

Castiel nodded sincerely. “Yes.”

“Take that kid home.”

Castiel was taken aback. He hadn’t expected Erak to give him the green light, especially not after the trouble about this he’d given him earlier. So he squinted. “Why?”

Erak sighed. “’Cause he’s a good kid. He’s a person too, and all that nonsense.” A short pause. “That boy o’ mine, he was the reason this whole treaty was created in the first place. He did great things ‘cause someone took a chance on ‘im. And now, yer takin’ a chance on this kid. I hope he’ll do great things too.”

Castiel nodded in gratitude, a small smile gracing his lips. “Thank you.”

Not half an hour later, he was back in his room with a piece of oilcloth in his hand, a bunch of dry leaves wrapped in it. Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, docile and quiet. Castiel sat in the chair by the table and repeated Erak’s instructions in his head. _Let him get used to it over time. Give him continuously smaller portions over larger periods of time. You’ll know when it’s done._

Another fifteen minutes later, Dean had his first episode.

It was truly a terrifying thing to see, especially when it was happening to someone you loved. It started with a small spasm, a pull of his leg as he remained seated on the bed. But it soon turned into a full attack, with Dean squirming on the ground, hands balled to fists as he let out cries. His feet kicked the air aimlessly and his whole body twisted on the floor.

Castiel kneeled beside him and put a hand on his shoulder, but Dean pushed him away roughly and continued his squirming and whimpering. The Ranger tried to scoop him up in his arms, to calm him down, but Dean kept thrashing and kicking and his cries suddenly morphed into a scream. It was heart-wrenching, a loud, high-pitched wail that clearly displayed the pain he was in.

Scrambling, Castiel rushed to the table to retrieve the warmweed and, plucking off a few leaves, he handed them to Dean. The boy snatched it away with a horrid desire in his eyes – the only expression different from the numb mindlessness that he’d been wearing since Castiel found him – and stuffed it in his mouth, chomping on it with delight.

Castiel felt sick to his stomach from watching Dean like this, so far away from his actual self. It felt like all the progress they’d made had been wiped out within a few miserable weeks. And not only had they lost all the progress, Dean had also reduced further from how he’d been when Castiel first met him.

 

****

 

Goodbye came faster than Castiel had thought. With the situation back under control and most of the people on Erak’s side, there was no reason for the Araluan army to be there anymore. The siege of Hallasholm – in particular Erak’s duel with Crowley – had solved the problem that Castiel and Charlie had originally come here for, so their time here was up as well. It felt weird, packing his things when he knew that when he left this time, it would be indefinitely. After having spent so much time here, Castiel had almost started feeling at home.

Not to mention the people here, the friends that they’d made. It hadn’t all been easy or smooth, but Castiel had the feeling that he’d made friends for life. He’d definitely be seeing Erak again, and Gundar and Svengal. He was glad to leave the cold and the snow, but some things he’d miss for sure.

Castiel had also never expected the goodbye to be so emotional, but here he was, standing on the docks with Balthazar’s ship at the wharf behind him. Looking over the line of people in front of him, he felt a dark, sad tug at his heart. Dean was standing a few feet behind him, swaying slightly while humming a tune that Castiel didn’t recognize.

Svengal was the first to step forward. Castiel offered his hand to shake but the Skandian ignored it in favour of wrapping him up in a bear hug. His feet were actually lifted off the ground and his ribs felt like they were being squashed. “I’ll miss yeh, grump,” Svengal said affectionately, squeezing Castiel a little tighter before setting him down. He had to take a few deep breaths once he was back on his feet and tried to discreetly massage his ribs.

“I’ll miss you too,” he wheezed. Svengal grinned and put his hands on his hips.

“Yeh know what me aunt Penelope always said?” he asked, putting a large hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “She said, ‘don’ be dismayed at goodbyes. A farewell is necessary b’fore we can meet again, and meetin’ again, after moments or a lifetime, is certain fer those who’re friends’.”

“That’s… very wise,” Castiel replied. Svengal grinned.

“I’ll see yeh again soon, friend.”

Gundar was second. He started with an annoyed, side-eye glance at Svengal, who was pretending not to notice. Castiel was pretty sure he heard him murmur, “You don’t have a Goddamn aunt!” under his breath, but decided not to comment.

Gundar’s goodbye was less painful for his ribs, but by the time the Skandian let go of his hand, it felt like his bones had been squeezed together and re-set in odd spots. “Take care now, a’ight? Don’ get yerself into too much trouble.”

Castiel smirked. “No promises.”

Some more pats on his shoulder and Gundar was off too. Next came Erak, dressed in a clean sheepskin vest – one that didn’t have Castiel’s blood caked on it – and an authoritative stance. One good thing that had come out of this whole ordeal was that he was taking everything a tad more seriously and with more regard to the small things. That was a great step in making sure something like this wouldn’t happen again.

“Castiel,” he said, something akin to fondly. The name sounded strange in the thick Skandian accent.

“Erak,” Castiel countered. “I never thought I’d say this, but I think I’ll actually miss you.”

Erak laughed good-naturedly, clapping him on the shoulder a couple of times. “Yeah, don’ tell anyone I said this but I jus’ might miss yeh, too.”

They exchanged smiles and a less enthusiastic hug than the one Svengal had given him. “’Till we meet again,” the Oberjarl said. Castiel nodded.

“Until we meet again.”

As soon as Erak turned away, Castiel had his hands full of Charlie. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he lifted her up, spinning her in a single circle before setting her down again.

“Promise me you’ll write?” she begged him. He smiled and kissed her forehead.

“Of course I will.”

Whereas Castiel was going with Balthazar’s ship back to Willow Vale, Charlie was tagging along with King Duncan himself to return to Castel Araluen. Neither of them knew when they would see each other next, but they’d already promised each other that it wouldn’t be long.

“God, I’m going to miss you so much,” Charlie sighed, laughing at herself as she wiped some tears off her face.

“I’m better company long-distance anyway,” Castiel joked. “I’ll miss you too. You should come visit my cabin sometime.”

“I definitely will,” she replied. Scraping her throat, she wiped her eyes and sent him a bright smile. “I should probably go. Wouldn’t want to keep the king waiting.” She turned back to give him a last hug. “See you, Cas.”

“See you,” Castiel repeated. He breathed in deeply, the cold air burning in his nostrils and the salt of the sea on his tongue. This, the fresh air and the salty winds, that was something he would miss.

“Come on,” he said, motioning for Dean to tag along. The boy followed him like a loyal puppy. “Let’s go home.”

Boarding the ship felt like turning the page of a certain chapter and part of him felt like he didn’t want to. “You’re off to more good memories,” he reminded himself quietly as he found a place at the stern. Dean sat down on the floor nearby, in between a barrel and a pile of rope, and Castiel saw him move in the corner of his eye as the ship set sail. Hallasholm got smaller and smaller and Castiel watched the silhouettes of his friends reduce to black dots in the melting snow until they disappeared in the distance.

His cabin on Balthazar’s ship was a lot larger than the ones he’d been appointed on the _Wolfwill_ and the _Wolfwind_. Beside the usual hammock, it had a dresser in it too and enough space to walk around comfortably. Luxury was a perk of his job that he didn’t get to see too often. Officially, he was equal in rank to a baron, but the luxurious lifestyle that came with leading a fief didn’t apply to the secluded Ranger life.

He shared his cabin with Dean, however, and it was barely big enough for the two of them. Dean, with the current state he was in, wasn’t able to take care of himself and he took up little space. One of the things the warmweed did for him was the ability to fall asleep anywhere at any time. He mostly slept on the floor, with his back against the wall, no matter how many times Castiel tried to get him to sleep in the hammock.

He had more episodes. Some were like the one he’d had back in Hallasholm, others were more like panic attacks, leaving him gasping for breath and howling in pain. Castiel hated it whenever he had to give him more of the drug – it felt like he was granting Dean his addiction every time he did it. Logically, he knew that the portions had to be cut a little every time, but the feeling that it was his fault Dean was like this kept creeping up.

During those episodes, Castiel would sit next to Dean after he’d gotten his cut and relish in the simple intimacy of being close to one another, even if Dean was far, far away in his mind. It was especially bad when he just had a share of the leaves. He’d be completely out of it and wouldn’t even respond to voices.

The longer he was off the drug, the more normal he got, but it didn’t get better than listening to commands and reacting to the sound of a voice. He didn’t speak anymore. The only times when Castiel heard his voice now was the whimpering and screaming during an attack or the mindless humming he would randomly start doing.

Dean had always been quiet, reserved. Obedient, even, as a result of half a life in slavery. But Castiel had gotten to know him very well these past months, and no matter how subdued or broken the spirit inside him is, it was still there, with a liveliness and wonder that Castiel admired in him, especially considering his tortured soul. And to watch the man he loved be reduced to but a shell of his former self hurt more than he’d ever thought possible.

The episodes were always the worst to watch. With Dean writhing on the floor in agony, practically foaming at the mouth with the need of this drug, it was painful and discouraging to watch. Castiel had been making the portions a little smaller but Dean still required them frequently. And this went on for about two weeks. Castiel postponed giving the drug until absolutely necessary – or, in other words, until Dean had another attack – and then the whole story would start all over again, with Castiel watching Dean slowly somewhat regain his senses only to have them taken away again.

Only in the third week of their voyage back to Araluen did Castiel start to see any changes. They were small ones, but they were changes nonetheless and he was delighted to finally see a little progress. It had been an uneventful day as usual and all Castiel had really done was visit Grace in the stables and have lunch with Balthazar. When he got back to his room, Dean was sitting in his usual corner on the floor, softly humming to himself and unaware of what was happening around him.

After Castiel had bathed himself (and discreetly bathed Dean, as he was incapable of doing that himself right now) and sat down at the table to do some overdue paperwork when he started with the realization. Dean hadn’t begged for the drug all day. His body hadn’t demanded it.

He kept a close eye on Dean for the remainder of the day and woke up stressed a few times during the night, checking if Dean was having another attack, but nothing happened. Not until in the afternoon the next day. That was the first full day Dean had gone without the drug and despite it being only a little progress, it made Castiel feel hopeful and optimistic.

By the time they reached the Araluan shores, Dean was on three days without the drug and counting. He was still out of it, still hadn’t spoken a word, but he was making leaps of progress and Castiel felt proud.

The ship landed in the harbours of Esseldon, a coastal town in the far east of Trelleth fief. Because there were no large rivers in the fief, they had to continue on land, which Castiel was silently grateful for. Disembarking took a while, what with all the soldiers, weapons and other equipment they had. Castiel and Balthazar stood on the shore, watching the waves crashing upon the beach. The lack of snowfall was a nice change after months of standing in ankle-deep snow. Spring had already come in Araluen, creating blossoms in the trees and flowers in the grass. The air smelled sweet instead of salty and Castiel silently revelled in it as it filled his lungs.

“That was quite the adventure, wasn’t it?” Balthazar said. Castiel nodded without taking his eyes off the sea.

“Yes. It was definitely more than I bargained for.”

Balthazar laughed. “Yes, I can only imagine. You may have been away from home for a long time, but at least you got one good thing out of it, right?”

Looking at the pale blue sky where it met the dark blue of the sea on the horizon, where, in the distance, lay Skandia, and the city that had taken from and given him so much. “I believe I got more than one good thing. I’m just lucky I was able to take the best thing with me.”

He looked over his shoulder, to where Dean was sitting in the grass, plucking at the green strands. Balthazar’s grin turned into a teasing smirk. “Well, you two had best be on your way, then. I assume you’ll want to go home as soon as possible. I haven’t been gone for nearly as long as you and I’m already longing for my own bed. It’s going to take quite a long time ”

Grace was led off the ship by a page who nervously handed him the reins and refused to look him in the eye. Castiel sighed. Looked like he was going to have to get used to being an anomaly again. “Thank you,” he told the boy, taking the leather straps. Turning back to Balthazar, he nodded. “Yes, I would. Are you coming with us?”

Balthazar shook his head. “No, no, no. I’m going to travel with my men. I wouldn’t be a very great leader if I didn’t, now would I?” He smiled and put his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “I’ll see you soon, Castiel. Don’t forget to drop by the castle every now and then, will you?”

“I’ll try and remember,” Castiel grinned. He moved in for a hug and, with a last pat to the baron’s back, he retrieved Dean and Grace. He tightened the girth of the saddle and managed to get Dean onto the horse’s back with some trouble. Walking back from Esseldon to Willow Vale would take long, but he didn’t want to over-exert Grace by making her ride with two people on her back. It didn’t matter, anyway. If anything, they had time.

 

****

 

The trek back to Willow Vale ended up taking almost three days. Castiel thanked whoever was out there for his great stamina, with which he could continue to walk by Grace’s side for that entire period of time while Dean slumped in the saddle on her back. Yet another thing the drug had killed in him was his stamina. He tired easily and spent the entire ride either limp in the saddle or trudging behind them as they gave Grace some time to rest her back.

They reached the city in the late evening and walking through the streets of the town after such a long time felt weirdly foreign but nostalgic at the same time. Due to the hour, there wasn’t much activity in the streets beside the few people in and around the tavern. There was no way they didn’t see the Ranger and his unfamiliar companion, but they were either too drunk or too intimidated to act upon it.

Castiel’s feet hurt and his back was aching when they reached the woods his cabin was located in. It felt weird to walk the route he’d taken so many times before with someone other than just his horse, and with so many new memories in his mind. A wave of exhaustion washed over him suddenly as he stumbled over the forest path. He had Grace’s reins in his hands still, with Dean swaying back and forth in the saddle. She sensed that they were finally home and Castiel smiled at her excitement, the skip in her step and the thrilled breaths she let out.

When they rounded a corner and finally saw his oak-wood cabin, with a stack of firewood piled on the veranda and the fence around the meadow. An air of peace that Castiel hadn’t felt in a long time came over him and he breathed in the familiar smell of the forest around him, the feeling of soft earth under his feet.

He helped Dean out of the saddle and told him to sit on the small stairs that led up to the veranda and stay, which he did. Then he led Grace into the stable and took off her gear, giving her a quick brush-over and some fresh water and food. He was too tired to do much else for her but she seemed perfectly happy, gnawing on some hay.

Walking back out of the meadow, he glanced up to his house and saw Dean still sitting on the porch, leaning against one of the poles with his shoulder and, from a distance, looking skinny but otherwise perfectly normal. Now this, Castiel thought, this is a sight he could get used to.

He walked up to him and as Dean’s head lifted to look at him, Castiel thought the empty look in his eyes seemed a little less empty. He extended his hand and Dean took it, pliantly and willingly. As he turned the doorknob and let the door swing open, Castiel squeezed Dean’s hand gently. “Welcome home.”

It was surprisingly clean inside; there wasn’t a speck of dust on any of the furniture and a vase of flesh flowers stood on the table. Castiel suspected he had Jody to thank for looking after his cabin. He’d have to thank her properly for it. But not now. Now, he just wanted to sleep.

Dean got the guest room. Castiel hoped to persuade him into actually sleeping on the bed instead of on the floor for a change, and with an actual bed easily available, Dean crawled under the covers easily and fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. Smiling fondly, Castiel took off his shoes and tucked him in before going into his own bedroom. His bed felt better than it ever had before and the blankets softer as he stripped and fell into it. And for the first time since the raid, he had a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

 

****

 

When Castiel woke up the next morning, he actually had a moment where he didn’t remember where he was, so used to the pinewood walls and bear-fur blankets. The familiar dark walls of his cabin reminded him quickly enough and he lay back onto the pillow, just breathing. His hand had immediately flown to his set of knives that was lying on the floor next to his bed and he released the grip slowly. The scar on his side throbbed.

The events of the past couple of days came back to him and he pushed himself out of bed. Dean had already wandered into the living area and was sitting on the ground by the fireplace even though the fire wasn’t burning. The Ranger cabin wasn’t large by any means, consisting of three rooms only; the living, which doubled as kitchen and office, and two bedrooms. The largest of those, which really wasn’t large at all, he used himself. There was a single bed, a closet for his personal stuff and a table with a jug and a basin for washing and cleaning. The other bedroom looked the same, but it was a little smaller.

The living area consisted of a small woodstove against one wall, separated from the living area by a pine bench, with pots and pans lined up against the wall above it. The combined living-and-dining area had a large, polished table with two regular chairs, which was also where Castiel did all his paperwork. There were also two comfortable chairs by the fireplace, and a vase of freshly-picked flowers sat on the mantle shelf. He was going to have to visit Jody to thank her for taking care of his cabin while he was away.

Sunlight filtered through the windows, softly illuminating the room. Dean looked up when Castiel walked in, still empty-looking but no longer unresponsive. “Good morning,” Castiel said. Dean looked up at the sound of his voice but didn’t respond. Castiel hadn’t expected him to.

He lit a fire and made a cup of coffee – his stack of fresh coffee beans was still intact – and sat at the table with it. It wasn’t long before Dean rose from his spot and slowly walked over to where Castiel was sitting. Hands folded neatly behind his back and a question in his eyes, he looked at the Ranger expectantly until he sighed and rose from his chair. “Stay here,” Castiel ordered before slipping back into his bedroom.

He’d stashed the warmweed in his closet, hidden in a stack of clothes so that Dean wouldn’t easily find it, even if he didn’t really seem capable of searching for it. Castiel didn’t want to take any risks – if Dean got a hold of the stash, chances were that he’d devour all of it in one go, and that’d mean they would not only be right back at square one, but also that they were completely out of warmweed as the drug didn’t grow in Araluen. And given Dean’s dependence on the drug, even doing much better as he was now, quitting cold turkey like that would surely kill him.

He plucked a few leaves from the plant and frowned at it in concern. It wouldn’t last much longer. He hoped Dean would be cured soon.

Dean was still standing where Castiel had left him, waiting patiently for his fix. This was how he’d taken to asking for the herb lately. No more episodes, no more agony in his body from deprivation. Just a pleading look every few days, and the rest was silence.

The boy eagerly extended his right hand when Castiel re-entered the room. His eyes were alight, but it wasn’t the spark that Castiel had come to know and love. But it was getting closer. With some more patience and a little luck, hopefully all would be well soon. Handing over the leaves, Castiel watched as Dean carefully scraped every last crumb off his palm into his own hands before grinning up at Castiel. The Ranger managed a wry smile back, but his expression morphed to one of shock and pleasant surprise when Dean spoke up with the simple words, “Thank you.”

He turned away after that, retreated to a silent corner where he stuffed the leaves in his mouth hungrily, but there was no doubt about it. Even if it were just two little words, after weeks of silence, Dean had finally said something.

“You’re welcome,” Castiel whispered. He left Dean be, then – no reason for him to be there when Dean was indulging his addiction – to visit Grace in the stable. She was already up, whinnying at him in greeting as she trotted towards the fence. Castiel always left the door of her stable open – except in winter when it got cold and windy – so she was free to roam the meadow anytime she wanted.

“Hey, girl,” he greeted her, patting the dark hair at her neck affectionately. He cleaned the stable, gave her some fresh food and polished the gear, just to avoid going back inside and watching Dean completely in the clutches of the drug.

And it was peace and quiet like that for a few days. It was oddly domestic, having Dean around the house. Castiel cooked a meal for two every night and looked after Dean in the ways the boy couldn’t look after himself; preparing food and baths and laying out clean clothes for him to wear. He spent a lot of time filling in the overdue paperwork while Dean sat quietly in a corner. He may be silent company, but he was company nonetheless.

After a few days like that, Castiel decided that it was safe to leave Dean alone for a while. He had to go visit Jody and taking Dean along would just raise a lot of questions. So he left a good amount of food and a jug of water out on the table and made sure the warmweed was well-hidden.

“I’m gonna go out for a little while,” he told Dean. The boy looked at him, hearing but not listening. “I’ll just be in the village, it’s not too far. I’ll be back soon.”

It didn’t look like Dean understood a word of what he was saying but Castiel trusted that he would be okay. He closed the door firmly behind him and readied Grace for the trip.

They’d finished rebuilding the town after the fire. He hadn’t seen too much of it in the dark when he got back, but it looked almost exactly the same as before the fire. The buildings looked a little newer and there was still some ash stuck between the pavestones here and there.

The tavern had a new sign. The paint was still brightly-coloured and clearly visible, not at all worn by the weather. Castiel noticed that the stables at the side of the building (for travellers that came through town with a horse) were rebuilt larger than they had been before. There was fresh hay for the horses to eat and a tub of lukewarm water sat on the ground. There were no other horses there at the moment so Castiel let her in the first stable and loosened the girth of her saddle. There was no need to undo all her gear; he wouldn’t be staying for long.

The bell above the door chimed cheerfully when he went inside. It was just before noon, so it wasn’t busy in the tavern by any means. He recognized most of them; Donna, a very close friend of Jody’s, and Billie, the town’s blacksmith. They were probably here for lunch. The tavern didn’t look much different on the inside than it had before, but there had been some minor changes; newer-looking walls and furniture, different tablecloths, and it smelled a lot fresher than the murky ale-smell that hung there before. The smell would come back before long, though.

Alex was walking around the room with a rag in her hand, cleaning the tables, and Claire was behind the bar doing the dishes. They both looked up when he walked in. Several emotions passed on Claire’s face before she dropped the glass she was holding into the dishwater and darted around the bar. She ran up to him and jumped to wrap her arms around his neck. Laughing, Castiel hugged her back, his strong arms holding her a little above the ground. He gently set her back down after a few moments.

“You’re back!” she said, voice loud with excitement. “You’re alive. We were all so worried, you we gone for so long. We thought…”

Castiel nodded, grinning. “I know. Sorry I worried you. I got held up a little.”

“You can say that again.” Jody emerged from upstairs, carrying a basket of dirty laundry that she set down as soon as she reached the bottom. She gave Castiel a brief but firm hug and kept her hands on his shoulders afterwards, properly looking him in the eye. He was a good deal taller than she was, so she had to look up a little.

“You’re looking good, kid. Tired, but good. Mind telling us what happened that made you stay away for so long?”

“Don’t call me ‘kid’,” Castiel grumbled. “And it’s kind of a long story.”

“Yeah, we figured that much,” Alex said, dropping her cleaning rag in the dishwater as she put her hands on her hips. “We missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Castiel replied. Taking a sat on one of the higher wooden barstools, drumming his fingers on the wood of the bar. “If you get me a coffee, I might find the time.”

Jody rolled her eyes good-naturedly and went to make him one. Meanwhile, Donna took a seat on the stool beside him, half a tankard of ale in her hands. “Thanks for taking care of my house while I was away,” he called to Jody. “It’s nice coming home like that.”

Jody smiled as she placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. “No problem. The girls helped me out there. Now, spill.”

Castiel took a sip of his coffee and contemplated where to start. “Well, it all started when me and Charlie Bradbury, head of the King’s diplomatic service, were sent to Skandia…”

Claire and Alex were easily impressable, stunned already by the fact that he went to Skandia, and they gaped at him in awe and slight disbelief as he told them a slightly euphemised version of the whole thing. He left Dean out, though. He didn’t want to put that on the shoulders of children so young.

Telling the whole story – even without Dean in it – took a surprisingly long time. Recapping it like this made him realize just how long he’d been away. Jody sent the girls away to work and refilled his cup.

“That’s quite a story,” she said with a low whistle. “Sounds like you got very lucky a couple of times there.”

Castiel grimaced. “Yeah, I wasn’t as lucky as I made it seem. I got injured in the battle. Pretty badly. Charlie saved my life. And… there’s something else.”

He took another sip of his coffee and stared into the bitter, black liquid for a few seconds. “You know how the Skandians keep slaves, right?”

A look of disgust crossed Jody’s face and she nodded. “Yeah, I know of it. Repulsive. I don’t understand how anyone can do that to a human being.”

“Me neither,” Castiel agreed. “There were a lot of them, but there’s nothing you can do about it as a diplomatic guest. So that sucked. But the worst part… the worst part was that one of them was Araluan.”

Both Jody and Donna looked at him with wide eyes and gaping mouths. He awkwardly sipped his coffee. “Araluan?” Donna spluttered. “But- but the treaty, and-”

“Yeah. It was a big mess. But it wasn’t the Oberjarl’s fault, so the treaty still stands. He’s going to be extra careful from now on. But it was just a boy. I’m not even really sure how old he is, but he can’t have been much older than seventeen, eighteen maybe. And he was from Trelleth fief.”

“He was from around here?” Jody asked. A righteous anger was visible in her eyes and Castiel felt a surge of respect for her. “Oh, God…”

“Yes. A small coastal town. In the earlier raids. Apparently, it had been going on for years before they came here. Anyway, it’s solved now. The Oberjarl promised to do whatever it takes to not let it happen again and I took the boy with me. He’ll be going home soon.”

“You took him with you? He’s here?” Donna asked. Castiel overthought his next words carefully. He didn’t want to tell them about Dean’s addiction. He knew that he wouldn’t want people to know if he was in Dean’s position. 

“His experience in Hallasholm has been… traumatic. He’s staying in my cabin until he’s well enough to go home. He was taken in the raid, so we don’t know if anything happened to his family. If they’re even still alive. So he may not have anyone to go home to and for that, he has to be as well as he can be.”

It was something Castiel hadn’t even really thought of before – Dean had described his family and friends so vividly that the option of them not having survived the raid seemed impossible.

“That’s awful,” Donna sighed. “That poor kid. He must’a been so terrified there, all on his own. You’re doing something real’ good for him. I’m proud of ya.”

Donna lightly punched his shoulder and he smiled at her. “Thank you,” he said warmly. “I just hope he’ll be getting better soon.”

By the time he finally left the tavern it was already late in the afternoon. He hadn’t meant to stay that long but being in such familiar and heartfelt company was something he’d missed and he’d lost track of time in between pop tarts, laughter and cups of coffee. The streets were bustling when he mounted Grace’s back and steered her onto the pavestones and they got a lot of glances and whispers behind their backs. It was nothing uncommon but it was for different reasons this time – the Ranger that had seemingly disappeared the day after a terrible raid had finally returned and Castiel was absolutely certain that none of the whispers were friendly, praising ones. But it didn’t bother him. He’d done his job and they didn’t need to know.

The forest was bustling with the life of spring and Castiel smiled as he heard birds chirping and a butterfly flew by right before his face. After a long, harsh winter, he’d finally arrived in brighter days.

A gentle breeze flowed through the trees around his house and the log cabin looked homely and welcoming, a thin line of smoke emerging from the chimney. He’d left a small fire burning when he left so Dean wouldn’t get cold – even thought it was spring, it was still quite chilly – and the house was still standing so he assumed Dean was fine.

He took his time unsaddling Grace, drying her skin with a handful of hay before he brushed the loose hairs out and combed the tangles out of her mane and tail. She slobbered some water and chewed on a mouthful of hay the whole time, her eyes half-shut in content. Castiel smiled as he patted her neck. Grabbing an apple from the barrel he kept them in, just out of the horse’s reach, he presented it to her on his flat palm and she ate it hungrily, chomping the fruit down in mere seconds.

 _Could I have another one?_ her eyes pleaded. Castiel shook his head, petting her nose.

“Too much candy is bad for you,” he mused. She shook her head, offended, and he left her at that with a smile. The breeze in the forest smelled sweet but it was still a little cold and Castiel huddled in his cloak as he walked up the stairs onto the veranda. The hinges creaked slightly as he pushed open the door, a shrill noise that gave him goose bumps every time, but it was highly effective in alerting him of any unwanted visitors.

He quickly closed the door behind him to keep the wind out and shimmied out of his cloak, draping it on its hook on the wall next to the door. He kept his boots on (strictly out of the habit of having to be quickly available at all times) and lay his weapon belt on the floor under his cloak (which he’d also taken with him out of habit). Only then did he glance around the room.

Dean was sitting on the floor by the fireplace, dressed in the clean, slightly oversized clothes that Castiel had laid out for him that morning. His hands were stretched out toward the warmth of the flames but his eyes were on Castiel. They were wide and surprised, with that undertone of fear that Castiel knew all too well, and he could see the boy’s shoulders trembling from over here.

He froze in his tracks as he stared back at Dean, eyes equally wide but for a different reason, and took a single step closer. Immediately, Dean scrambled to his feet, stumbling over one of the chairs and barely keeping his balance. Still half bent over, hands on the chair to keep himself steady, Dean kept staring at him, but the empty look in his eyes was gone.

“Cas?” he asked, voice soft and trembling and something inside of Castiel snapped. He strode forward, ignoring the way Dean flinched at his fast pace and probably weird facial expression and wrapped him up in a hug. Dean was tense at first but he quickly melted into it, burying his face in the crook of Castiel’s neck like he’d done many times before and breathing in deeply. His arms wrapped around Castiel’s waist and his body shook as he sobbed quietly.

“Shhhh,” Castiel hushed, rubbing his hand up and down between Dean’s shoulder blades to comfort him. “Shhh, it’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

“What’s going on?” Dean asked in a small voice. He sounded terrified but he was calming down fast in Castiel’s presence. The Ranger pulled back a little and guided Dean into one of the comfortable chairs by the fireplace. Dean was still shaking and he held onto Castiel’s hands for dear life. “I just woke up, I was sleeping on the floor and I didn’t know where I was. I was so scared.”

His voice broke and Castiel squeezed his hands, rubbing his thumb into the skin there to calm him down. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you anymore. How are you feeling?”

“Where are we?” Dean asked. He rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater and Castiel gently wiped a stray tear away from his cheek.

“We’re in my cabin,” Castiel explained. “In Willow Vale. We’re back in Araluen.”

It took a while for that to sink in. Dean had trouble believing it. Grip still tight but jaw slack, he stared at Castiel in disbelief. “Araluen,” he repeated. “What?”

“How are you feeling?” Castiel pressed. “Are you feeling okay? A little weak, maybe? Hungry? Thirsty? Shall I make something? I can make a stew.”

“I’m fine,” Dean answered. He looked puzzled but gestured at the food on the table. “I’m a little hungry but you don’t need to make me anything. I can- I can eat some bread, if that’s okay?”

With that came the question of how long Dean had been like this – _awake_ , almost – and how long he’d been hungry and not eating because he didn’t know if he was allowed to. Castiel nodded firmly. “Yes, absolutely. Of course you can. Go for it.”

Dean stood a little shaky on his legs and he was tentative as he walked over to the table and took a slice of bread, but he didn’t seem as frightened anymore when he sat back down, nibbling on the crust. “What happened?” he asked. Castiel took his free hand in his own again.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Castiel asked.

“I, um…” Dean started. “I remember a fire? Is that right? Fire, and people screaming and running and… oh God, the sleeping quarters. They were on fire, weren’t they?” Castiel nodded grimly.

“There was an invasion. They penetrated the city, took out every threat. I had to leave with the Oberjarl. We barely made it out in time.”

“You knew they were coming?” Dean asked. He didn’t sound accusing but Castiel did take it like that – he left Dean behind there when he really should have taken him along.

“We knew it was possible, but we didn’t think it would actually happen. Especially not so soon,” he replied. “But I should have known better.”

Dean shook his head. “No, it’s not your fault. There was probably nothing you could have done if they managed to burn the whole city. I mean, I get that you’re awesome but no one’s _that_ good.”

“Still,” Castiel muttered. “Do you remember anything after that?”

“Vaguely, but it’s a little blurry.” Dean stared at the fire, trying to remember. “I think there was a market. A slave market. We were all sold. And after that… it’s all black. I remember that it was still cold. Really cold. And there was a lot of pain. I think he – the man who bought me – that he liked to hit me. And-”

His eyes widened almost comically when he was struck with a new realization. His face went ashen. “The- the thing. That plant. The one that Garth got me.”

“Warmweed,” Castiel said gently. That was all Dean needed to know. He buried his face in his hands and sighed miserably.

“I took it, didn’t I?” he groaned, voice muffled. “God, that’s so stupid. I knew what that stuff does to you. I’ve seen it happen to so many others, and I didn’t want that. It may be really cold there but it was never worth sacrificing your mind for a little warmth, in my opinion. Especially when you came around.” He glanced up at Castiel shyly but with a small smile and the Ranger couldn’t help but smile back. “A lot of the others thought differently. Garth was the one that always handed it out. And I never took it from him, never wanted to, but after – after the fire, it got worse. Not with the cold, it wasn’t as cold as before, but… it hurt a lot. And I just wanted the pain to stop.”

His voice rose in pitch, choked-off by emotion, and Castiel scooted a little closer to lay a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. I get it. Don’t blame yourself. You did what almost everyone in your situation would have done. And I should have been there for you. I should have protected you.”

“I never blamed you,” Dean said quietly. “Yeah, I was scared. For all I knew, you were dead. And I missed you. A lot. But I was never angry with you.”

“I was- I got injured during that fire. And the whole time I was healing up, all I could think of was you. How I failed you, what happened to you. How much I missed you.” He scraped his throat. “But it’s all turned out okay, right? You’re here now, you’re better. Nobody’s going to hurt you anymore.”

“Yeah, speaking of. How did I get here? What did you do to get me out?” Dean swallowed. “Did you buy me? Am I- am I yours now?”

Castiel spluttered. “What? No! No, I just took you back here. I don’t own you. No one owns you anymore. You were never even supposed to be there. There’s a treaty between Araluen and Skandia, has been for years, and they violated it. So they let you go. You’re free.”

“Free?” Dean repeated. He looked like the words tasted weird on his tongue. “I’m free? He just gave me away like that?”

“Hey, it wasn’t easy,” Castiel teased. “I had to fight for you, man. But I got you out. You’re free to do wherever you want, whenever you want.”

Dean hesitated. “You’re serious? We’re in Araluen and I’m free?” Castiel nodded patiently.

“Free as a bird. What do you want to do?”

Hesitating for a few more moments, Dean slowly leaned in and carefully – anxiously – pressed his lips to Castiel’s. It was a short kiss, nothing more than a brief touch of their lips, but it got them tingling nonetheless. Dean pulled away but not too far, still breathing in each other’s air. He was so close that Castiel could count the freckles on his nose and see the flecks of green in his eyes. “May I go outside?”

“Anything you want,” Castiel promised. He grabbed a spare pair of boots and an extra sweater for Dean, swung his cloak over his shoulders and opened the door. The hinges creaked again and Dean flinched a little but as the sunlight came streaming in, filtering through the leaves of the oak trees surrounding the cabin, he inched closer to the door.

Castiel watched as Dean slowly stepped outside, hands trembling all over again as he descended the few steps down the veranda onto the grass below. His mouth was slightly hanging open in awe and he stretched his arms out towards the sunlight as if trying to grasp it. The sun shone brighter and warmer in Araluen that it ever did in Skandia and her light illuminated Dean’s face beautifully.

It was enchanting to watch how Dean carefully crouched, fingertips brushing delicately against the grass before he sat down in it, clutching handfuls of the green strands. His chest moved in sync with the deep breaths he took to smell the sweet air. He looked ethereal like that, seated in the grass in not-quite-fitting clothes, his bony features beautifully accented by the rays of sunlight.

It felt like a dream come true to the both of them.

Grace came trotting to the fence, demanding attention from her newfound friend, and the smile on Dean’s face was made of pure gold when he walked up to her and gently stroked her nose. Her nostrils flared as she breathed out contentedly.

Castiel stood in the shadows by his log cabin, hidden by his cloak but with the cowl pushed back, watching his boy play with his horse in the small meadow. A warmth that wasn’t coming from the sun filled his stomach and, perhaps for the first time ever, he thought with conviction, _I am home._

 


	10. Absolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel stepped out of the shadows, making himself as broad and tall as possible – which wasn’t all that hard with his cloak fluttering around him. Another arrow sat on the bow, muscles flexing as he pulled it back until his fingers almost touched his chin. “One more step and the next one will be between your eyes,” he growled. His voice was low and threatening. As if on cue, the torch on the wall finally gave in to the wind and rain and the flames died, leaving them in the impending darkness of dusk. With the rain falling down and the breeze passing through the street, fluttering his cloak, he must have looked like the nightmare they’d raised Sam to believe he was.

The tavern was a little too crowded for Dean. Even though it was still early in the evening and most guests didn’t arrive until later, it was quite full already and the bustling atmosphere combined with the smell of ale probably didn’t bring back great memories. He anxiously clung to Castiel’s arm, keeping his head down and hiding behind his back a little. It didn’t quite work because he was a few inches taller, but the idea was definitely there. This shyness and fear of people was completely understandable, but Castiel hoped it was something that would get better with time, when Dean realized that he was truly in another place now.

Claire and Alex manoeuvred around the inn, trays with glasses of ale balanced on their flat hands, and Jody was busy behind the bar. Donna sat on one of the stools in front of it and Jody was engaged in conversation with her while working. She noticed them coming in and started making a pot of coffee before Castiel had even taken a seat.

“Ah, Ranger, how nice of ya to grace us with your presence again,” Donna teased him as he sat down beside her. Dean stayed pressed against his back until he coaxed him into a chair as well.

A steaming cup of coffee was placed in front of him and Jody looked from Castiel to Dean and back with a raised eyebrow. “I take it this is the boy we’ve heard so much about?” she asked. Dean looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him up, squeezing Castiel’s hand to the point it started to hurt. Castiel squeezed back in hopes of being comforting and nodded to Jody.

“Yes. This is Dean. He’s staying with me for a while.”

Dean ducked his head and mumbled a soft greeting that got lost in the bustle of laughter and chatting in the room. Jody shot him a calming smile and gave him a cup of coffee as well. “Welcome in town,” she said. “If there’s ever something you need, or if this guy is starting to annoy you,” she pointed at Castiel with a smirk, “you can come to me, alright?”

A little taken aback, Dean wrapped his hands around the warm cup and nodded. “Yeah. Thank you.” He sounded like he couldn’t quite believe it and Castiel had to bite back a smile.

Taking a little break from work, Jody poured herself a glass of ale and leaned across the bar for a conversation. “So, Dean. Where are you from?”

“The yard, ma’am,” was Dean’s immediate reply. He coughed nervously, taking a sip of his coffee. “I mean, I was born in Lawrence. It’s a small town, near the coast. In the north of the fief. But I haven’t been there in years.”

“So I hear,” Jody replied. “And there’s no need to call me ‘ma’am’, kid. It’s Jody.”

“Okay.”

“Ah, you’re from Lawrence?” Donna asked, clinking her glass against his cup. “I’ve been there a couple times. Lovely little town. Where exactly did you live?”

Dean looked to Castiel as if to ask for permission and when he nodded encouragingly, launched into a shy and less detailed version of the story he’d told Dean once upon a time, in the stables of Hallasholm.

Jody tapped the bar in front of him to get his attention and with a sideways nod of her head, they stepped aside, out of earshot. “He does seem a little traumatized,” she said. “But like you said, he needs to get back to his family. He can’t stay with you forever, he needs to get his life back on track. How are you going to do that?”

“I know,” Castiel sighed. “I’ll talk to him about taking him back home. To Lawrence.”

“I think that’ll be best for him,” Jody agreed. “To be around people he knows from before. Familiar faces. Get a job, try to build something there. Something familiar. I think that’s what he needs most.”

“I think you’re right,” Castiel said honestly. That didn’t mean he liked it – having to say goodbye to Dean – but it was what was best for him, and Castiel was so whipped that he would do anything.

“I’ll make arrangements soon. Borrow a horse from the baron. But I want to give him a little time first. To get accustomed to life in Araluen. It’s been so long since he’s had something like this. All he’s known for _years_ was work. Work and pain and cold. And he’s having trouble adjusting to, well, to being a person. He’s been trying to do all kinds of chores around my house – chopping wood, cleaning. He still gets nervous from doing nothing. I don’t want to just hand him over to people that have no idea what’s happened to him when he’s like this.”

“I understand,” Jody assured. “Just make sure you keep your head in it. He’s a victim. He’ll probably take a very long time to recover. If he ever fully will.” She looked to where he was still talking with Donna, shooting the occasional glance their way to check if Castiel was still there. “He seems very attached to you.”

“He went through some very rough times back there, and I helped him. I don’t think he’s ever had anyone help him before. Honestly, I’ve grown very attached to him as well,” Castiel replied. Jody eyed him thoughtfully for a while before patting his shoulder.

“Alright, champ. I hope you know what you’re doing.” She walked back to the bar to tend to a new customer, and Castiel wandered back to Dean. The boy had a small smile on his face as he listened to Donna talk and it felt good to see him come alive in a much happier, safer environment than he’d been in for years.

Castiel felt almost bad for interrupting them when he wrapped an arm around Dean’s shoulders and gently tugged him off the stool. “Mind if I borrow him for a minute?” he asked Donna. She was already waving them off.

“He’s all yours,” she winked cheerfully. A blush that had nothing to do with the heat spread over Dean’s cheeks and Castiel pulled him aside. Dean’s cheeks were coloured with a healthy blush and his face was starting to fill in a little already, after a few days of good, nutritious meals.

“How are you liking it here?” Castiel asked him. Dean grinned, a shy, tooth-baring smile that warmed Castiel’s heart every time he saw it.

“It’s great. Your cabin is amazing and the people here are really nice.”

“Yeah, Jody’s really something, isn’t she?” Castiel chuckled, then scraped his throat. “Dean, I need to talk to you about something.”

Dean frowned. “About what?”

“About you. And your family. Don’t get me wrong, I love having you around, but of course you want to see your family.”

Dean’s eyes widened and his mouth opened and closed a few times, no sound coming out. “You’d let me see my family?”

Castiel stared at him, sure he was suffering from some kind of auditory hallucination. “What? Of course! Dean, I mean it, I don’t own you. You’re _free._ If you want to, you can leave today and never see me again.”

“That’s not…” Dean mumbled, staring at the ground in shame. Castiel sighed.

“I know.” He pulled him in close with a soft “C’mere”. “You’re not my prisoner, or my property, or anything. You’re your own person and you can do whatever the Hell you want. I can’t tell you what to do or who to see. Or not to see.”

Dean rested his head on Castiel’s shoulder, arms coming up to wrap around him tightly. “Deep down, I know that. I know you’d never do that to me. But it’s still a little hard to comprehend.”

“I understand. But you better get used to it. This is your life now. And it won’t all be fun and games – you’ll have to find a job soon, start working again – but at least you’ll be doing something you like.”

Dean smiled. “I’ll try.”

“Good. So, do you want to see your family?”

Dean shrugged, unsure. “They probably gave up on me already long ago.”

Castiel pursed his lips. “I don’t believe that.”

“I know I would have. After seven years,” Dean countered.

“Would you? If it had been your brother that had been kidnapped, would you ever have given up on him?”

A pause. Dean looked away. “No.”

“Well, then. I don’t believe your family would ever give up on you. Not after what you told me about them. So, anytime you feel ready, we’ll go and find them.”

 

 

****

 

‘Ready’ turned out not to be for another few weeks. Castiel hadn’t exaggerated to Jody about Dean’s trouble adjusting. He tried to do everything around the house, any task he could think of. Castiel understood that just falling out of a habit like that was impossible, so he tried to ease Dean out of it. Every time Dean got itchy and started doing something, Castiel would join him, work alongside him to get that strong feeling of ‘I have to do this or I’ll get punished’ out of his mind.

At first, it didn’t seem to have much effect – Dean would keep trying to work his ass off the whole day ‘round, but slowly but surely, things started getting better. Dean started sleeping in, coming into the living room with sock-clad feet in an oversized sweater, rubbing his eyes with too-long sleeves as he softly asked Castiel to make him some coffee. Castiel obliged every time, more than happy to indulge in his thirst for the beverage.

One night, Dean came into his room. Castiel lay completely still as the boy slowly walked up to his bed and carefully crawled under the covers, keeping an eye on him the whole time as if expecting him to lash out. When nothing came, he settled and inched closer to Castiel, laying his head on his shoulder as the Ranger extended his arm as an invitation.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” he murmured. Dean smiled shyly up at him, barely visible in the dark.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he whispered, eyes briefly flicking down to his lips before coming back up to meet his.

“Not at all,” Castiel replied, licking his lower lip before slowly, gently moving in closer. He heard Dean’s breath hitch but the boy didn’t move away and soon, their lips were touching in a slow, lazy kiss. They were both comfortable and warm from sleep and Castiel groaned into the kiss with satisfaction. “I could get used to this,” he said, voice croaky and heavy.

“Me too,” Dean confessed. “I wouldn’t mind doing this every day.”

Castiel had been trying to give him space, to keep his distance so Dean could figure things out on his own pace. But if this was what Dean wanted, then he would stand wholly behind that.

Once Dean had grown comfortable in telling Castiel his own wants, he started feeling more comfortable around the house as well, lounging in the grass and spoiling Grace with cuddles and apples. Castiel didn’t want him to completely fall out of the rhythm of work, however, because it would be so much harder to pick it back up later. So he had him do small things, like cleaning up after dinner or helping to prepare the food. Larger tasks they did together.

Dean knew how to ride a horse, he’d learned it when he was young. And quite like walking or writing, that’s something that you never un-learn. And because Dean’s mood always lifted significantly whenever he was around Grace, Castiel indulged (again) and gave him her password.

All Ranger horses were taught one from the start of their training to prevent them getting stolen. Grace’s was ‘allow me’. When Dean repeated the words out loud, Castiel grinned, remembering when he was an apprentice and he’d done exactly the same thing.

“Don’t tell me, tell the horse,” he parroted the words of his former mentor with a poorly disguised smile. Dean rolled his eyes, blushing, but did as he was told. Grace bobbed her head up and down as if saying _Yes, that’s right_ and turned to give him easy access to her back. Dean climbed into the saddle a little clumsily, but as soon as he was firmly seated, his body seemed to remember what to do and within minutes, he was riding like a pro. Castiel stood by the fence, grinning as Grace trotted closely by him.

“Looking good,” he said. “You’re handling her very well.”

“Thanks,” Dean yelled, laughing as Grace threw her head back and whinnied along. “She’s an amazing horse.”

“Yes, they certainly trained her well.”

“Hey, Cas?” Dean called, coming to a stop right in front of him. Grace extended her head over the low fence to get Castiel to pet her. “I think I’m ready.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I want to go see my family.”

Castiel nodded. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

Castiel set out to make it happen right away and a few arrangements and a chat with Baron Balthazar later and Castiel was riding back home with two horses in tow, one for their stuff and one for Dean to ride. They were large battle horses, elite breeds with great training. Muscled and thick, they were nothing like Grace in any way, but they were strong and for a trip as short as this one, they were fine.

Dean was eager, thrilled with a little anxiety about the trip underneath, and he made friends with the new horses instantly. While Castiel prepared enough food and water for them to bring and packed all the stuff that he usually took with him on a trip, he watched through the window as Dean dashed around in the meadow with the horses like new-born deer in spring. It was ridiculously adorable and Castiel found himself smiling broadly.

That evening, Dean was exhausted from his endeavours. They sat at the table together, chairs pushed close, and Dean’s head rested on Castiel’s shoulder. He was dozing while Castiel was reading reports and the sheer domesticity of it gave him a fuzzy feeling inside. It was weird, different from anything he’d known before, but it was nice. It was good.

Early the next morning, before the sun had fully risen, Castiel was tightening the girth on Grace’s saddle. The saddle bags of the pack horse were filled with dry food and the water bag was full with fresh water that, Castiel knew from experience, would start tasting murky and like leather after only a few hours. He was dressed in full attire, weapon belt secure around his waist and his bow and quiver a sure weight on his back.

Leading Grace and the other two horses out of the meadow, he walked back into his cabin and opened the door to the bedroom. Dean was still sleeping soundly, hands tucked under his head. Castiel walked up to him, waking him up by wrapping himself around the boy’s body. Dean groaned and swatted at him. “Go ‘way,” he mumbled, turning his head into the pillow. Grinning, Castiel pulled the covers off him completely.

“Come on, sleeping beauty. Nap time’s over. We’re ready to go.”

“No, I’m not,” Dean objected, but he pushed himself up and rubbed his eyes. “Give me a few minutes.”

Castiel pecked his cheek and left the room to give him some privacy. After a few minutes, Dean emerged, looking grumpy and tired but also fully dressed and with his (little) stuff packed. Castiel could tell he was a little nervous, but that was understandable. After not seeing his family for about seven years he was about to show up on their doorstep unannounced. Given they even survived. There were a lot of unknown factors in this and that was pushing Dean’s buttons.

The sun came up when they’d passed through the town and steered their horses north. The colours it painted in the sky were bright and pretty and they didn’t look much different than the ones he’d seen in Skandia every morning and somehow that was a comforting sight.

Their days were spent mostly riding, with the occasional break for a meal and to rest up their limbs. They took their sweet time, riding at a comfortable pace, and they stopped earlier in the evening than Castiel would have done if he’d been on a real missions to hunt for rabbits or ducks. Fresh meat for dinner was always better than the dried pieces of meat he’d prepared at home. It tasted good but it was always like chewing on a leather shoe.

Evenings were spent huddled around a small campfire, enjoying the luxury of a warm dinner with a pot of coffee. Dean cuddled up to Castiel, leaning into his broader frame, and they shared stories and random thoughts as they stared into the flames and simply enjoyed each other’s company.

Dean got antsier and more quiet the longer they travelled. Castiel could hear him twisting and turning in his sleeping bag the night before he’d anticipated they would arrive. Castiel wanted to do something to reduce his stress over it but they’d already postponed it for long enough. So he half-climbed out of his own sleeping bag and curled up against Dean’s back, arms wrapped around him to keep him still and calm. It wasn’t long after that that his muscles relaxed and his breathing evened out.

Castiel fell asleep like that and if his arm was a little cramped the next morning, the well-rested look on Dean’s face was worth it. He still looked very anxious and nervous, but at least he wasn’t tired.

Dean didn’t say a word the whole morning, quietly riding his horse while he stared off into space, deep in thought. Castiel let him be, gave him his space. And when, around noon, the outline of the town became visible through the trees, way down the hills at the edge of the sea, Castiel thought he was going to topple right off the horse.

They halted on the top of the hill, trees behind them and a valley up ahead. The sea stretched out beyond the valley Lawrence lay in, a vast surface reflecting the sunlight; beautiful and haunting. Especially considering the memories they each had on the other side. Dean sighed into the open air, horse shifting restlessly underneath him. It could feel the tension off the two of them.

“It hasn’t changed at all,” Dean said, half to himself. It was a small town – Castiel could see, even from this far away, that it mostly consisted of one main street and but a few small side streets. The surrounding lands were either fields for crops or paddocks for livestock, with golden-brown wheat and herds of cattle or sheep. Spread in between the fields were farms and stables where a lot of the villagers lived and worked. In the water close to the shore, some small boats were visible floating on the surface. It looked like a perfect image captured in a painting.

 “Are you ready?” he asked Dean. The boy shrugged but went for a smile.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he replied. “At least I’ll feel a lot better knowing you’ll be with me.”

“I won’t leave your side,” Castiel promised. Dean leaned in to kiss him on the cheek before steering his horse down the hill. In the few lone, silent seconds before Grace went thundering after him, Castiel added quietly, “Not again.”

Riding down the quite steep hills like that was a delight – the wind ruffled their hair and their cloaks fluttered behind them like superhero capes, swept up by the wind. It probably looked ridiculous but it felt freeing and uplifting and the sound of Dean’s laugh was worth all the weird glances they got from the farmers in the fields.

As they neared the village, more people stood near the road or walked on it so they slowed down their horses to a lazy trot. Castiel pulled the cowl of his cloak over his head to hide his face. Only his mouth and chin were visible like this. All the stares and whispers always made him a little uncomfortable if his whole face was on display. The cowl added to the mystery of the Rangers and it made him feel like the whisperings and the rumours weren’t aimed at him personally.

Dean suddenly pointed to the far west side of the village, where a grassland stretched out to the edge of a dense forest. “I remember that,” he said in awe, “that’s where we used to play all the time.”

“Who knows,” Castiel replied, “maybe you’ll get to play there again today.”

Dean punched him in the arm the best he could with the distance between their horses. “Shut up. I’m too old to play tag now.”

Castiel hummed his disapproval. “Nonsense. You’re never too old to have fun. And it doesn’t matter where you find that.”

“Says the shadowy forest demon. I highly doubt you even know how to have fun.”

Castiel spluttered, quasi-offended. “I can be fun.”

“Oh, yeah. You’re so much fun,” Dean deadpanned. He didn’t even pretend to be serious.

“Shut up, you love me,” Castiel retorted. He looked at him sharply when Dean replied with, “Yeah, I do.”

It was said in a teasing tone, but from the look in his eyes, Castiel could tell that he was serious. He smirked, the cowl concealing his reaction from Dean completely. “Well, I should hope so. Because I love you too and it would have been very awkward if you didn’t return the sentiment.”

Dean laughed, light and relieved and loving. “Yeah. It would.”

The dull _thump-thump-thump_ of their horses’ hooves on the dirt road turned into sharper _click-click-click_ ing when they reached the main road of the village. It was paved but a little uneven and unlike in Willow Vale, it wasn’t adorned with carriage trails or evened out from use. “It’s definitely a small town,” Castiel muttered. Dean nodded absently.

“Yeah. The tavern should be somewhere up ahead. Maybe we should get a room, drop off our stuff.”

“Didn’t one of your friends own it? A father figure?” he recalled.

“Yeah. Uncle Bobby, a friend of my dad’s. And his wife, Ellen.” He swallowed. “Jo lived there, too. I don’t know if they’re still even around. Bobby was already pretty old before I… left.”

“Hey, don’t start overthinking this. We’ll see how it goes. And if they don’t live here anymore, we’ll find out where they went. We’re not going to give up, okay?”

Dean smiled. “Okay.”

Castiel saw it, then; a wooden sign dangling from the front of one of the larger buildings. The silhouette of a rearing horse was painted on it. The paint was faded and peeling but he could still make out the writing; _Singer & Harvelle, _then under the drawing; _tavern_. A smaller sign just underneath it had an arrow on it and the words _stables_. It pointed at what Castiel had first thought was the building next door, but he now saw that those were indeed stables. There were five of them, two of which already occupied. They urged their horses to a stop in front of it and dismounted.

Dean’s eyes were glued to the sign. “Cas…” he whispered, eyes wide and hopeful. “Cas, ‘Singer’ and ‘Harvelle’, those are Bobby and Ellen’s last names.”

Castiel took his hand in his own. “See? It’s all going to be all right now.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. Yes. I hope so.”

“I know so.” He winked. “Why don’t you go put the horses in a stable, clean them up a bit and give them some food. I’ll go get us a room.”

Nodding distractedly, still looking at the sign, Dean took Grace’s reins from him and guided her and his own (borrowed) horse into the stables, coming back out to take the pack horse in too. Castiel grabbed some of his stuff from the saddle bags and went inside.

There was a small, copper bell above the door that chimed when he opened it. The sound echoed through the almost empty room. A fire was crackling in the corner, a large pot of delicious-smelling stew hanging above it. Most tables were unoccupied, save for one where a petite blond girl sat talking to a man with half-long, greasy hair and a sleeveless jacket. They both had large glasses of ale on the table in front of them.

The only other people there were at the bar; a man and a woman, and Castiel assumed they were the owners of the inn. The man had greying hair and an equally grey beard. He looked grumpy and uninviting as he unabashedly eyed Castiel upon his entry. The woman, with her long, dark-blond hair, had a much friendlier look about her, but she still looked fierce and was probably just as wary of strangers. Another man sat on a stool by the bar, a sailor’s hat on his head and a glass of liquor in his hand. He was the only one that didn’t stop to stare at him.

Castiel walked up to the bar, greeting the couple with a nod of his head that could barely be seen before he pushed the cowl down. The hostility faded somewhat when they could see his face, but it was still painfully obvious that they weren’t used to new people in town. Especially not a Ranger.

“Afternoon,” Castiel greeted them politely. He got no response. “Could I get a room for two?”

He pulled out the small bag he kept his money in and dug up a few gold coins, laying them on the bar. The man eyed the money suspiciously. “What’s a Ranger like you doin’ in a town like this? We don’t usually get fancy visitors.”

“First time for everything.” Castiel pushed the coins further towards them. The man squinted at him but swiped up the gold pieces.

“Room for two, huh? You bring a friend?”

“Something like that.”

As if on cue, the door swung open and Dean walked in. He had his hood pulled up now, too, and he kept his head down as he walked up to Castiel, clinging to his arm as soon as he was within reach. Judging by how tight his grip was, this was indeed that Bobby.

Bobby glared at them for a moment longer before nodding towards the stairs in the corner. “Third door on the right.”

“Thank you,” Castiel answered, pulling Dean along with him up the stairs and into the room. As soon as the door had fallen shut behind them, Dean pushed his cowl back and stared at Castiel with wide eyes.

“That was them, Cas. Oh God, that was actually them. Bobby and Ellen.”

“Are you sure?”

Dean smacked his arm. “Yes! And Jo was there too. That girl – young woman.”

“The blond one?” Castiel asked. Dean nodded. The Ranger grinned. “I hate to say I told you so, but…”

Dean laughed; nervous, relieved, happy, sad, every emotion in that one sound. “Yes. You did. You even promised me.” His eyes glittered. “Thank you.”

“No trouble at all,” Castiel assured him with a soft kiss. “Now, let’s unpack, maybe freshen up a little. And then let’s go say hi to Bobby and Ellen.”

The room they’d been assigned wasn’t large by any means – it had a double bed, a small drawer and a washing basin, but that was the extend of it. Aside from a small, unlit fireplace and a window on the street-side, the room was bare. It got Dean a little emotional when he took it all in. He sank down onto the bed, head in his hands and tears in his eyes.

“It’s all so familiar,” he said, voice shaky. “It’s all coming back to me now. We used to play tag in the hallway, and hide and seek in the empty rooms. It would piss Bobby off so much but we had so much fun we just kept doing it.”

Castiel sat down next to him and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “You get to have that again now. Maybe not the same way as when you were a kid but you’re back here. Maybe you’ll be sleeping in your childhood room tomorrow.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay? We don’t even know if dad and Sammy still live here.”

Castiel bumped his shoulder against Dean’s playfully. “Now, now, grumpy. I thought I was supposed to be the dark one in this relationship.”

Dean chuckled. “Guess you’re rubbing off on me.”

They freshened up quickly and changed into clean clothes. The smell of horses and sand still clung to them but it wasn’t too bad now. Dean was nervous, running his hands through his hair over and over and his hand was constantly in Castiel’s.

“There’s no need to be scared,” the Ranger reminded him. “These are your friends. Your family. There’s no reason for them not to take you back with wide open arms. You were taken from them. It’s not like you abandoned them.”

Dean took a few deep breaths and steeled himself. Castiel could actually see his mind harden behind his eyes. “You’re right. I’m ready. Let’s do this.”

They both put their cloaks on again and went back downstairs in full Ranger attire. Dean didn’t have any clothes from his time in Skandia and since he liked wearing Castiel’s clothes, they hadn’t bothered buying him new ones. So Dean was dressed like a proper Ranger, complete with Castiel’s spare camouflage cloak. The only thing missing was the silver oakleaf that indicated membership of the Corps.

The inn was just as quiet downstairs as it had been about an hour earlier, when they arrived. Conversation fell silent as they entered the room. Dean had his cowl pushed back now, too. Anxious but determined, his hand never left Castiel’s. No one except Bobby looked up this time, the others pointedly looking anywhere but at them.

“I remember this too,” Dean whispered, “small town mindset. Strangers are rare and always looking to ruin the daily rhythm of the people here.”

“And of course, a Ranger is even worse. Two must be catastrophic,” Castiel snorted.

He ordered drinks – water for the both of them – and as Bobby set the two glasses down in front of them, pouring fresh water from a jug, he got a good look at Dean and Castiel saw him do a double take. Then a triple take. But he shook his head, mumbling something under his breath, and set the jug down. Dean swallowed thickly.

“Thanks, Bobby.”

The words were uttered quietly but because there was no other sound in the room, they seemed to echo off the walls like a scream. They made the old man stop in his tracks and turn back to stare at his face, eyes squinted and calculating. Dean blushed under the attention but he didn’t dare say anything so Castiel just squeezed his hand under the bar and watched.

The room was completely quiet when Bobby came to the conclusion, so they all heard it loud and clear when he said, surprised and confused but not at all unsure, “Dean?”

All four other heads whipped around simultaneously, four pairs of eyes burning holes into their skin. Dean opened his mouth and closed it again a few times, not sure of how to respond. In the end, he settled on a shy nod as he twirled the glass in his hand. “Hey.”

“My God,” the greybeard said. His eyes turned friendlier and warmer but he didn’t avert them. His gaze was still insistent and disbelieving. The others crowded in close as well, all shocked gasps and large eyes. Bobby and Ellen came out from behind the bar and Castiel wanted to slip away, give them all a moment, but Dean clung to his hand like his life depended on it so he stayed put.

Bobby flew up to Dean suddenly, wrapping his hand around the back of his neck and pulling him into a near-desperate hug. “Boy, where in the ever-loving Hell have you been?”

Dean chuckled wetly, head dropping down and arms coming up to hesitantly be placed on Bobby’s shoulders. “That’s, um- that’s kind of a long story.”

“No kiddin’,” came an unknown voice. Castiel half turned to look at the man that had been sitting at the bar in the corner. He’d stood up to reveal a broad, muscled body and as he came closer, Castiel could smell a tang of fish and salt on him. He looked at Dean in wonder with a small smile on his face. “I got a lotta questions, chief.”

Dean gaped. “Benny? Oh my God,” he said. He slowly walked up to the man, looking him up and down. “You’ve changed so much.”

Benny looked at him with equal amounts of bewilderment and his mouth quirked upwards when he laughed, amazed. He moved in for a hug and Dean went willingly, letting himself be pulled in and patted Benny’s shoulder a few times. “Oh yeah? Well, you haven’t changed at all, cher.”

Dean’s smile turned sad and he pulled back. “Trust me, I’ve changed plenty.” He spared a glance at Castiel over his shoulder. “But I’ve had someone looking out for me.”

He had tears streaming down his face now, overcome by emotion, and he squeezed his eyes shut when Ellen strode forward to hug him too. “We’ve all missed you so much,” she told him.

“Me too,” he replied in a choked-up voice. Jo was the last one to approach him. She looked like she’d seen a ghost – which, in a way, she had. After no news for seven years, she must have thought he was dead.

“Hey, dumbass,” she said. She was trembling a little but she held her own. “Never thought I’d see your ugly face again.”

“Back at ya.” They hugged, brief but warm. Castiel could tell from Dean’s body language how emotional this was for him. It went on for a while; reintroductions, sharing old and new stories. The other guy in the tavern with them was called Ash. He’d only moved into town after Dean had disappeared so they didn’t know each other but he seemed cool. Castiel sat a few metres away from them, keeping an eye on his boy and staying close while also giving them their space.

“Now,” Bobby grumbled after a while, “d’ya mind telling us why you’re running with a Ranger? Dressed like one?” He spat the word _Ranger_ like it was an insult.

“Yeah, how’d that happen?” Benny wanted to know.

“Well, it’s kind of a long story.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “But Cas – Cas is my friend. He’s my- we’re, um- he saved my life.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. “I am Ranger Castiel Novak of Trelleth Fief. It’s… nice to meet you.”

No one returned the sentiment but Castiel wasn’t too bothered. Irrational fear of Rangers existed among almost all commoners and it mostly stopped perturbing him years ago. Bobby glared at him.

“So, what, he just decided to bring ya back here outta the goodness of his heart?!” he asked. Dean walked over to Castiel and took a hold of his arm again.

“Yes. He’s a good person. He _saved me_. In more ways than one.”

“Why are you wearing his clothes? He try to recruit you or somethin’?”

“No, I didn’t have anything of my own. He let me borrow his clothes,” Dean defended him.

“Where you been this whole time, brother?” Benny drawled. Dean sighed and sank down onto a stool.

“Do you remember what happened? The night I was… taken?” Everyone nodded grimly. “Yeah, well… they weren’t just pirates. They were Skandians. And they, um- they took me back to Skandia.”

“Skandia?! You were in Skandia?! How the Hell did you get out?”

“Well, that’s where Cas comes in.” Dean smiled up at him and Castiel smiled back.

“I wish that was how it happened, but unfortunately there was a little more time between those events,” he said. Taking back his seat beside Dean, he took the boy’s hand in his own. “You should tell them the whole story. They deserve to know.”

Dean sighed. “You’re right.” He turned back to the rest of their company and took a deep breath. “Alright, the full story is a little more complicated.” He licked his lips. Castiel squeezed his hand to let him know he was right there.

“So, you know how slavery is still a thing in Skandia?”

 

****

 

Telling the whole story took longer than he’d expected. A few hours must have passed, judging by the sun. It was nothing Castiel hadn’t heard before – all the things he hadn’t seen first-hand Dean had told him when they were lying in bed, shameful words whispered into the dark of the night. A lot of the details he’d told Castiel, he left out now, though. Some things they didn’t need to know.

“… I was skin and bone. Not far away from death. And Cas, he- he saved me. He was there for me when I had no one else. And he didn’t have to. He didn’t come to Skandia for me and he probably put his entire mission at risk. But he chose to help me.” They shared a special look. “He chose me.”

Benny looked at Castiel differently now and Bobby was still gruff but less hostile. “He took care of me and cured me,” Dean continued. “I actually don’t look too bad anymore now but I was malnourished and beat-up when I first got back. Cas made me better.”

“I guess a thank you is in order,” Bobby grumbled. Castiel shook his head.

“No need. I didn’t do it for anyone but Dean. And maybe a little for myself.”

“Bobby, I need to ask…” Dean sounded scared. “What about Sam? And my dad? Are they- did they survive?”

Bobby looked taken aback. “You ain’t seem ‘em yet? Yeah, they made it. Still live in the exact same place. You gotta go see ‘em, kid. Ya just wandered in here without goin’ there first?”

“We needed a place to stay, in case they- they weren’t here anymore.”

Bobby’s face quickly turned from shocked to pitying as he took in Dean’s vulnerable appearance. He was hunched in on himself on the barstool, arms wrapped around him and eyes cast down. It was a stance Castiel had seen on him plenty of times. He took it whenever he felt threatened or particularly vulnerable. He’d been like that for days after he was flogged. And he trusted Castiel enough to not be like that around him anymore, but even though these were trusted people from his childhood, he hadn’t seen them in years and after all he’d been through, finding that trust again would take some time.

“You look like you’ve been through a lot. Maybe you should get some sleep and we’ll sort this out tomorrow,” Bobby said. Dean looked torn. He glanced at Castiel for guidance.

“Whatever you want,” the Ranger reminded him. Dean smiled.

“Yeah. Whatever I want,” he parroted. Then, “I want to see Sam.”

Bobby looked ready to object, but Castiel cut in before he could. “Okay. We’ll go and find Sam. Finish your drink, I’ll go get my stuff.”

He could feel everyone’s eyes on the back of his head as he made his way up the stairs but he ignored it. Strapping his knives to his belt, he swung his bow and quiver on his back. He didn’t want to walk into unknown territory naked, even if it was just a small town.

Dean was hugging Benny when he got back downstairs. “See you again soon, buddy,” he said, and Castiel could tell that it was hard for him to say goodbye. Even though they now knew it would only be temporary.

“You want us to tag along?” Jo asked, suspiciously eyeing Castiel. The Ranger half expected him to say yes, but Dean shook his head.

“No. I can do this by myself – I want to. But thanks.”

Castiel walked up to him then and Dean pressed himself against the safety of his body. The Ranger nodded in greeting and then the two of them were standing outside the tavern. It had started raining, unexpectedly as it did often in coastal areas, and even the paved road was slick with water and mud as they made their way down it. Few people were out, passing them while they either stared blatantly or purposely ignored them. Castiel pulled his cowl up but Dean kept it down. This may be a town small enough that everyone knows everyone, but not many people remembered the eleven year old kid that was abducted roughly seven years ago.

Dean still knew his way around the village very well. They walked further down the main road until they almost reached the end of it and took a right turn onto a side street there. That road was paved too, and against expectation it was also a lot busier than the main road. Of course, ‘busy’ was a relative term in a small town like this but compared to the nearly deserted main road, this street was bustling.

Castiel saw the signs of several small-looking craft stores; a bakery, a cordwainer and a butcher. And on his right hand side, at the far end of the street, a smithy. The sign was worn, discoloured by weather and age, and with the rain falling down and darkening the paint Castiel could only just read it. _Winchester,_ it stated proudly above a detailed horseshoe, and underneath it read _Blacksmith._ There was only one person out on the street this far down, hauling large bags outside and stacking them against the wall of the building. The figure was tall and broad, with muscled arms and the outline of a sword at his side. With the sun setting and limited lighting in the streets, it was hard to see well, but Dean had apparently already identified him.

He grabbed Castiel’s arm so hard it might leave a bruise and the Ranger heard his breath hitch. He didn’t need to hear the words to know that this was, in fact, Sam. “Well, that didn’t take long,” he noted. Dean chuckled nervously. “Are you ready?” Castiel wanted to know.

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. Not sure if I’ll ever be. Better get it over with, right?” He smiled wryly and Castiel squeezed his hand.

“Let’s do this. Together.”

“Together,” Dean agreed. They walked up to the building. The sign creaked in the small wind. The rain, albeit seemingly light, was soaking them to the bone. Dean’s hair was several shades darker blond than usual and it clung to his forehead. It reminded Castiel of the snowy days in Hallasholm, when he’d have snow in his hair and it started melting in the stables.

As they neared the smithy, they got to see Sam in the faint light of one of the torches hanging on the wall. He was indeed tall, taller than Dean even, with shoulder length shaggy hair that now messily stuck to his face. He had a sheathed sword strapped to his belt and his clothing looked familiar to Castiel; he recognized it as the national uniform of first-year Battleschool recruits. That meant that Sam must be fifteen years old – the age that noble children got to choose which school to enter or common children (if they showed a lot of potential) would get chosen by the craftmasters.

They were within talking distance now but Sam hadn’t noticed them yet. Sensing that Dean needed to do this alone, Castiel slipped away into the shadows, close but invisible. Dean let him go. He kept shooting anxious glances at the shadows every few seconds, but Castiel knew that even from this close, he was practically invisible.

Sam finally noticed his unannounced visitor when Dean stood in front of the door and cleared his throat. The younger boy startled and quickly set down the bag he was holding. “Evening. Sorry, I didn’t see you. The smithy is still open. You can go inside, my dad will be here any minute,” he said. His voice sounded boyish with the undertones of maturity breaking through. Castiel watched from where he was standing a distance away as Dean clammed up with emotion, staring at his brother like it was the first time he was seeing him. Sam looked a little weirded out.

“Can I help you?” he asked defensively. Dean shook himself out of his stupor and took a shaky step forward.

“Sam?” he asked in a small voice. Sam looked positively appalled, intuitively stepping back when Dean came forward.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “How do you know my name?” His hand hovered above the hilt of his sword and Castiel blessed his own paranoia.

“Sammy? Hey, it’s me. It’s Dean. It’s me.”

In one swift motion, Sam pulled his sword from its sheath and pointed the sharp, gleaming tip at Dean. His face was raging, furious and hurt, and his hand shook where it was gripping the blade so tightly his knuckles turned white. “That’s impossible,” he hissed. “Dean- Dean is dead.”

Dean physically flinched with the weapon pointed at him, raising his hands in surrender and quickly stepping back. He took a deep breath – Castiel saw his chest heaving – and tried again. “I’m not dead, Sam, I’m right here. I’m back. It’s me.”

Sam looked angrier than ever but also like he was on the verge of crying as he surged forward and placed the sword on Dean’s shoulder, blade pressing into his neck lightly. Dean went stock-still, swallowing heavily while he fought the upcoming panic Castiel could see building in his eyes.

Slipping his bow from his shoulder, Castiel’s arm went up to retrieve an arrow. He’d placed it on the bow and pulled back the string before he even realized what he was doing. But then a small trickle of blood dripped from Dean’s neck and he didn’t even try to hold back anymore.

The arrow made a swishing noise as it soared through the air. It hit the ground in between Sam’s spread feet with a _whack_ , buried in the slit of earth in between two pavestones. Trembling with the impact, it remained upright, sticking threateningly out of the ground. Sam exclaimed in surprise, reeling back as if he’d been burned. Dean looked a little spooked as well but his eyes flickered to the shadows to shoot him a look that Castiel didn’t know whether to take as a “Thank you!” or a “What the Hell?!”

Sam tried to find the source as well, but he was less successful, looking around in panic with is sword raised to chest height. At least he knows his stances, Castiel thought sardonically. As Sam’s eyes unknowingly slid over his features, Castiel noticed how he suddenly looked very young and frightened. But Dean’s neck was still leaking little drops of blood and his eyes screamed painful memory.

Castiel stepped out of the shadows, making himself as broad and tall as possible – which wasn’t all that hard with his cloak fluttering around him. Another arrow sat on the bow, muscles flexing as he pulled it back until his fingers almost touched his chin. “One more step and the next one will be between your eyes,” he growled. His voice was low and threatening. As if on cue, the torch on the wall finally gave in to the wind and rain and the flames died, leaving them in the impending darkness of dusk. With the rain falling down and the breeze passing through the street, fluttering his cloak, he must have looked like the nightmare they’d raised Sam to believe he was.

Sam scrambled backward until his back hit the wall and he couldn’t go any further. His gaze flickered between Dean and Castiel a few times but he was by far more scared of the Ranger than of the imposer.

“What do you want?” he asked. Sword still in his hand, he must have gone for demanding and in control, but he was shaking on his legs and he looked so young when he was scared. His voice came out as a squeak and he was almost pushing himself through the wall. He was trapped.

Castiel moved in closer, bow still raised and aimed at Sam’s head. But before he could get up close, Dean jumped in between them, pushing Castiel back with both his hands. “No, Cas, don’t,” he urged, laying a hand on the bow to push it down. With a glare at Sam that the boy couldn’t see, Castiel put the arrow back in his quiver. His bow remained in his hand.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, his free hand coming up to lightly graze the skin of his neck. “Are you okay? Does it hurt?”

Dean covered the wound with his hand. “It’s fine. I barely even feel it.” His hand came back red, but the wound looked shallow. Nothing serious. “What are you doing?!”

He kept his hand on his neck to keep the blood from Castiel’s view, knowing it would anger the Ranger more, and Castiel huffed. “I wasn’t actually going to shoot him,” he argued. “He hurt you.”

“That doesn’t mean you can threaten to shoot him!” Dean hissed. “He’s my brother, Cas!”

“Yeah, he’s lucky he is. I would have already shot him if he wasn’t,” Castiel muttered. Dean smacked him on the arm and Castiel looked at him in warning.

“Dean…” he growled. Sam’s sword clattered from his hands onto the pavestones. They both turned to look at him. He was still wary of Castiel but his eyes were trained on Dean. On his face, his eyes, ears tuned into his voice, to his mouth saying his name. The word ‘brother’.

“Dean?” Sam said, an echo of Castiel. It sounded broken and hurting and Castiel’s heart actually ached for him a little. Dean looked dumbfounded, shocked but hopeful. Sam’s eyes flicked from Dean’s one eye to the other and he even dared come closer now that Castiel wasn’t sporting any arrows anymore. “Is it really you?” he asked, and Dean nodded fervently.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. It’s really me.” He laughed, relieved and happy and tired and teary. “It’s me.”

Sam surged forward, wrapping his long arms around Dean’s neck. His eyes were closed and his face was tense and Castiel turned away to give them some privacy. He heard them talking but deliberately didn’t listen to what they were saying.

It wasn’t long before he felt Dean’s hand on his shoulder and he turned back to see Sam still looking at him like he was some kind of demon. Dean looked teary but happier than Castiel had probably ever seen him and he couldn’t help but kiss him on the temple.

“That didn’t go very smoothly,” he whispered. Dean chuckled.

“Maybe it just went crazy well with Bobby.”

“Maybe,” Castiel agreed. He turned to the younger brother then and pushed his cowl back to reveal his face. Some of Sam’s fear melted away at seeing that there was, in fact, a human being beneath those clothes and not an actual demon. But he still looked mildly terrified and he swallowed when Castiel met his gaze. The Ranger nodded and Sam nodded back awkwardly. He had tears still silently streaming down his cheeks.

“Is dad home?” Dean asked. Sam shook his head.

“No, he’s out, but he should be back soon. Do you- do you want to come in?”

“Yes,” Dean said eagerly. “Oh, Sam, this is Cas. I mean, um, Ranger Novak? Of Trelleth Fief. He’s the one that brought me here.”

Sam nodded tensely and Castiel sighed. He hoped it wasn’t going to take Sam long to get used to him.

On the inside, the smithy looked just like any other of its kind; a large hearth with equipment all around. It smelled of charcoal and smoke and it was uncomfortably hot. Dean breathed in deeply, eyes closing at the familiar smell. His hands shook when he reached for Castiel’s.

“I’m home,” he breathed, looking into Castiel’s eyes with the brightest smile he’d ever seen on him. It felt strange with Sam’s eyes on him but Castiel smiled back anyway and leaned in for a kiss that Dean happily returned.

They went upstairs then, to the living area, where Dean looked around in wonder. “It all looks so different,” he said quietly. Sam shuffled his feet.

“Yeah, you’ve been gone for a long time.”

Dean looked down. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Castiel wanted to angrily cut in, assure Dean that it wasn’t his fault, but Sam beat him to it. “No, it’s okay. I didn’t mean it like that. But, the place was burned down the night you- that night. Dad and Bobby rebuilt it from the ground. Again.”

With Dean’s childhood in the back of his mind, Castiel looked around the relatively new-looking building sadly. It wasn’t a large house by any means, only one floor with doors that Castiel thought lead to the separate bedrooms. Simple wooden furniture and a lack of decorations made up the room and while Dean looked around like he’d found paradise, Castiel found himself a little bored by the interior. No decorations of any kind, not even a vase of flowers like Dean had so fondly spoken of.

“I see you’re in Battleschool,” Castiel remarked. Sam flushed proudly and puffed his chest to show the weapon on his tunic; a black wing on a royal blue background. Balthazar’s weapon. “Under the command of Baron Balthazar. I trust that Battlemaster Michael is a good teacher.”

“Yes, Sir, he is,” Sam replied, hands behind his back on habit. “I’m honoured to serve in his army.”

“I’m sure you are,” Castiel said, amused. “The Baron’s a good one. Close friend of mine. Saved my ass more than once.”

Sam looked like his eyes were going to pop out of their sockets. Castiel grinned. “Keep up the good work and I’m sure the baron will be thrilled to have you as one of his troops someday.”

Sam just nodded, dumbfounded and intimidated but glowing under the encouragement. He was as excitable as a kid.

It was awkwardly silent as Dean walked around the house, touching the furniture delicately like he couldn’t help himself. Sam firmly kept his gaze on his brother as he stumbled around the house. A noise from downstairs broke the quiet and several emotions passed on Sam’s face.

“Dad’s home,” he muttered. He didn’t look too happy about it. Dean didn’t either, more anxious even than before they met Bobby. Sam took a seat in a comfortable chair and Dean stood in front of the fireplace (even when it wasn’t really cold, he’d taken the habit of seeking out every heat source he stumbled across), twisting his fingers behind his back. Castiel merged with the shadows in a corner.

A figure emerged at the top of the stairs. He was bulky and tall, just like his two sons, with a salt-and-pepper beard and hair to match. He was wearing an apron that had once been white but was now stained with black grease and burn marks. His hair was lying flat against his scalp. He looked tired, worn out from a day’s hard work. His eyes were a little glazed over and as soon as he saw Dean, he went very still.

Sam’s greeting of “Hey, Dad” seemed to go unnoticed as John Winchester stared wearily at the wretched face of his long-lost son. Minutes slowly ticked by as he just stared without batting an eyelid. Sam’s eyes shifted between the two like he was watching some enthralling face-off. Castiel was just getting worried when John sighed with the most fatigue he’d ever heard.

“I need a drink,” he mumbled before moving toward the kitchen, a slight limp in his step. Dean frowned at his father’s retreating back.

“Dad?” he asked quietly, confused. John stopped dead in his tracks and turned back. Meanwhile, Sam had gotten up from the couch and was moving towards their father. Castiel couldn’t hear their conversation but he picked up some words like ‘Dean’ and ‘real’ and ‘back’ so it wasn’t hard to piece together.

John slowly moved back to where Dean was still standing, jittery. He didn’t only look like he was seeing a ghost, he looked like one himself. Pale and agonized, the face of a hope long lost and a desperation to cling to the truth he’d grown used to. The truth of having lost a son.

But that son was now standing in front of him, alive and getting well, and John didn’t quite know what to do with that. He halted in front of Dean and extended a hand. It stopped mid-reach, shaking so badly that Dean took a hold of it before he crumbled to the floor. The contact released something in John, and the last barrier that was holding back a waterfall of tears came crumbling down. They flowed freely with no intention of stopping anytime soon. Dean’s face was a mirror of his, age the only thing to tell them apart.

Emotions were piling up high and Castiel felt out of his element, sticking to the shadows as Dean and John hugged each other for the first time in seven years. And it was when they embraced each other that realization dawned upon Castiel. Dean was home. His job here was done. It was time for Dean to spend time with his family now.

He slipped away unnoticed, down the stairs and out into the evening air. It was chilly and the sun had fully set, the last remnants of her light now colouring the sky. A veil of peace came over him as he watched the colours slowly fade away and he trudged back to the tavern. His stuff was still in their room but he didn’t bother to get that right now and walked into the stables instead. Grace was still wide awake, chewing lazily on some oat, and Castiel geared her up and led her outside.

The streets were quiet now and they didn’t come across anyone as they rode through the village toward the harbour. The Narrow Sea was peaceful and quiet, just like him, and he stopped Grace at the edge of the water to simply watch and listen.

He was just starting to feel a little zen, trying so hard to convince himself that this was okay, he could live with this, when the hooves of another horse thundering on the beach’s sand broke through his thoughts. He turned in the saddle to see Dean’s borrowed battle horse coming toward him, its temporary owner on its back.

Dean halted beside him, so close their feet touched in the stirrups. “You left,” Dean stated softly as he looked out over the sea. “I figured you’d be here. You have a thing for the ocean.”

“It’s a recent development,” Castiel admitted. Seagulls shouted loudly above the water and Castiel regarded them, wondering if they were the same ones he’d seen in Hallasholm. “I wanted to give you some space.”

“I’ve had seven years of space,” Dean countered. “And that was seven years of pain and loneliness. I don’t ever want to feel like that anymore.”

“You should be with your family,” Castiel said. It came out sharper than he’d intended it to, voice a little choked up. “They’re your home.”

“No,” Dean argued, “you are. You’re my home. This place was all I ever knew but now that I’m back, I realized I always wanted to leave. I didn’t want to work in my dad’s smithy, I wanted to go to Horseschool, become a horsemaster. Train battle horses, do something on a larger scale than some deadbeat town.”

“They’re your family,” Castiel said resolutely. He didn’t know what else to say. He was getting teary-eyed and emotions were something he didn’t know how to deal with very well. “You want to be with them. I know you do. I have to go back to Willow Vale. And I’ve been trying to tell myself that it’s what’s best for you, but I- I don’t know if I could take it.”

“You promised you wouldn’t leave me,” Dean said desperately. He leaned over to put a hand on Castiel’s lower arm. “You promised.”

A single tear finally broke though and rolled down his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut and tightened his grip on Grace’s reins. His veins popped and his knuckles turned white.

“Please don’t leave,” Dean begged, and that was it.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.” A smile, weak and teary but genuine. “Okay, I’ll stay.”

Dean’s hand slid from his arm to his hand to hold it and with a start, Castiel realized what a force of nature he was. He was like a forest – tough and unbending, something you get easily lost in but you could walk around in for hours without noticing. His thoughts were like the ocean; sometimes calm and collected, other times dark stormy, dangerous to tread. And the stars – oh God, the stars – Dean carried every last one of them in his eyes. He was Castiel’s whole damn universe and he’d been a fool to even think about living without him. Not anymore.

“I love you,” he told Dean. Without even a split-second hesitation, Dean replied.

“I love you too.”

He was sure as the height of a mountain, as the depth of an ocean. Stars twinkled in his eyes and his smile cast a light brighter than the sun. And in that moment, Castiel knew that whatever happened, whatever would be thrown their way, they would get through it stronger than they’d been before.

They loved with a love that was more than love. It was the mending of hearts that didn’t realize they were broken. It was the healing of scars, both mental and physical. It was the two of them running to each other, clinging to each other with such devastating desperation, maybe purely because they were there, and they were the only ones. And maybe the beginning wasn’t healthy, and the middle was a magnificent tragedy, but in the end, they found home.

With the familiar sounds and smells around them and memories in their hearts, they sat like that until the moon rose and the stars came out. And there, they created their own little universe, their private piece of heaven. Stars in the sky, stars in their eyes.

This was all they’d ever need.

 

 

 

 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://angeldean.co.vu)?


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